


When I have Fears That I May Cease To Be

by WisdomOfSpace



Category: Legacies (TV 2018)
Genre: And it will be like four chapters of fluff, Angst, Biased Narrator, Character Study, EVERY narrator is biased, F/F, Full Tribrid Hope, Hope needs a hug and she will get a hug, Mikaelson family!, PTSD written by someone with PTSD, Soulmate AU, Two months in Malivore is Not Good, but there will be a happy ending, graphic depictions of anxiety, slight gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23156515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WisdomOfSpace/pseuds/WisdomOfSpace
Summary: You die. Alone, in the dark, and it is quiet.You wake. Alone, in the forest, and it is loud.Or,Malivore isn't so kind as to free what he fears and kills it (the moment her heart stopped he was dead).
Relationships: Davina Claire/Kol Mikaelson (mentioned), Hope Mikaelson/Josie Saltzman, Keelin Malraux/Freya Mikaelson (mentioned), Marcel Gerard/Rebekah Mikaelson (mentioned)
Comments: 249
Kudos: 619





	1. To die and to wake (it is not a painless thing)

**Author's Note:**

> Cos: So, I was wondering, what would happen if Malivore didn't want to just let Hope go and instead tried a more...permanent solution?  
> Hope is not alright, and that is going to be explored in this fic- alongside her family. There are more changes in this fic but they will be explored as they come along.  
> Find us on Tumblr at: thewisdomofspace

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

John Keats

Darkness. Not the comforting shadows of night that brings a crisp wind, cooling your worries and stress and anger. It is a uniform black, and it feels like drowning. Suffocating, even if there are no walls or ceiling there is still the feeling of disappearing into something endless and deep. It feels like staring into a void (did it blink? Is this your madness?) and the air. Cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones (into your soul) and leaves you feeling like a husk, the kind of cold that you are not sure will ever end (you used to like the cold). 

Sometimes you can hear whispers. Not from the dark, from the shadows that sometimes circle you (or is it just your imagination?), but from within your own head. Rattling around your skull in agonized screeches (not the Hollow, _Not the hollow,_ you remind- beg- over and over). As if something is dying, a slow and fearful death. Ironic, considering you are pretty sure you’re already dead. Though this is far from what you anticipated death to be like. Or perhaps it is a punishment, you can’t say you do not deserve it nor do you regret how you got here. You saved them, saved _her_. And that makes it worth anything, worth everything.

Malivore. It takes a frankly embarrassing amount of time to realize you are not dead (maybe that would be better). The fact that whenever you used magic, the screams would come was a rather large tip off. Light, resting above your hand and even if it makes it so you can see yourself- the darkness is so pervasive it is hard to tell distance- fades into the dark as the inhuman screams makes you lose focus.

So, you wander in the dark, in the endless black.

And wander.

And wander.

The monotony, the perpetual walking and energy (you don’t need to sleep or eat, and even breathing feels more like a reflex rather than a necessity) is finally broken by a long, sibilate sound. Lower than you would think a hissing creature could make, echoing around in the dark off of walls that are not there. You can feel eyes on you, even if you cannot see it. It, whatever _it_ is, lunges at you and a long chitinous appendage wraps around your arm. You rip it off, and the screech that echos is most definitely outside of your head. And then silence. The same _nothingness_ and, damn, you may not be dead but you almost wish that you were. When you start walking, a body hits your legs.

But you just keep moving.

More come. Sometimes they don’t die on the first try, instead you have to figure out how to kill them. In a move that would make Josie proud (and your heart stutters at her name, it hurts worse than any of the hits from the monsters) you end up burning one alive. Their screams are echoed alongside Malivore’s, a terrible cacophony. You keep moving.

On some level, you’re almost glad for them. Anything is better than the endless dark (better than the memories, the pain of remembering those you’ll never see again).

Exhaustion begins to set in eventually. Not physical, no your energy never seems to flag even if the bruises and blood makes ever movement painful. It is a mental exhaustion, the kind that makes thinking difficult, making your movements lag as your reactions slow. The kind of exhaustion that makes you want to lie down and give up. You won’t. That…that isn’t who you are (is it?). Doubts begin to creep in. Doubts that maybe this _is_ hell. Because, even if it is within Malivore, the constant fighting and blood and pain- both physical and mental- feels like your own personal hell.

Part of you, the part that whispers your darker thoughts with a voice that tries to pull your thought down darker paths, believes that you deserve this. The Necromancer said your father would not find peace, that he would be restless and in pain, unless you found happiness, but look at what happens when you try.

The next monster to come (you’ve lost count of how many at this point, just…too many) and it is faster, smarter. It does not come at you without a thought. It stalks you. It _hunts_ you. And when it attacks, it catches you unaware.

Perhaps it is the exhaustion, or the stress, or the fact you are unaware (maybe it is because you are _tired_ of fighting…of everything), but your mistake proves deadly. It pins you to the ground, and you can’t see it. That is what sticks with you. As drool drips onto you, rancid breath hitting your face, you can not see in the dark. It is going to kill you (are you not already dead?) and you can’t even look the damn thing in the eye. You’re going to die, and it is going to be a death in the dark, with no one to mourn or remember you. You’ve felt lonely before, felt the all encompassing pain of having no one to turn to even when surrounded by people, and yet here- in the dark, the cold, the emptiness- you realize what it is to be _alone_. To know that no one will come to help, that no one even realizes you are in danger, this is what it means to be alone.

And before you can think, can react, it bites. Its jaws, its teeth, close around your neck and for a second all that you feel is pressure. Then the agony washes over you, alongside the blood pouring over your throat, and the monster _rips_. You can’t even scream as it tears your throat out. You die, and it is cold, it is empty, and it almost feels overdue.

You die. Alone, in the dark, and it is _quiet_.

* * *

The writing first started when you were sixteen. You were halfway through a painting, ignoring the depression and pain that tore at your chest in a near constant pain those days. A small ‘ _hello_ ’ crawled across your hand in a script that was beautiful even as the letters seemed shaky. For one, breathtaking moment, you forget about the pain in your heart as it is replaced with awe. Soulmate. You knew that most people had them, in some form or another, but you did not expect to be one of them (you did not think you deserved one, you still do not). And you did not expect to have the same communication your father did. That thought brings everything crashing back in. You remembered your father’s eyes as he would pull his sleeves down over half written notes and questions that were never in his own hand writing, the way he cautioned you about throwing yourself into a relationship with your soulmate. A pain in his eyes that was soul deep and _emptyemptyempty_ in a way that scared you. Your mother was more romantic, though no less cautious, and espoused the benefits of such a relationship- even if it was not a romantic one. Yet the handwriting you saw on your father’s arms, the words that wound their way around your mother’s bicep, were not each others. The shadows and pain and loss in their eyes was unmistakable. It was then you decided you never wanted to meet your soulmate. More trouble than they’re worth, you thought (and you weren’t entirely wrong, but you would not change the fleeting, painful moments for anything). But you wonder who it is, and how they knew. Until you see the paint on your hands and groan. Your brush hovers over your wrist, curiosity beginning to override your caution. And then another sentence follows and your stomach drops. ‘ _My name is Josie_ ’. It could be a coincidence, but you doubt it. Responding is something you push away with a scowl. This was still when you were so convinced that to make a friend, to move on, would dishonor your parents memories. (You still wonder what would be different if you had responded).

The second time is after the whole ‘Penelope Break Up’ (And you glared gossiping people into silence for two weeks- playing up the whole ‘bitch’ persona that people believed in so deeply). The words are across your stomach, as they have been for almost every day for a year. _‘I’m not doing so well today, I wish you would-‘_ Whatever she had wrote was wiped away, leaving the ‘would’ smeared. Again, the temptation was strong. But you resisted, with the memory of Lizzy laughing in history class. Making a jibe under her breath of ‘ _Bet no Mikaelson has ever had a soulmate, I’d feel bad for them_ ’ quiet enough that you were the only one that could hear. It hurt more than you thought it would, but you just raised an eyebrow and rolled your eyes. But it did not stop you from looking at the small paragraphs scrawled across you every day. It did not stop you from copying them into a notebook and writing your own responses. It did not stop you from being sloppy with your paints as they ended up smeared across your hands.

You did write back the third time. It was after Josie’s sixteenth birthday, after she was buried alive, after you helped pull her out of a grave. You didn’t sleep that night (that week). And you felt the itch of words dancing across your skin in the middle of the night. /‘I’m scared’. It was short, shorter than than anything she had ever written. It was the first promise you can remember breaking. ‘ _Can I help_?’ You were not careless, your handwriting was different. Though this time, you were the one left waiting for a response that never came. You were left sitting in the dark, trying desperately not to remember the way you felt when you thought Josie was gone (your soulmate, she’s gone, you never told her, she’s _gone_ \- the thoughts that played on repeat as you sprinted across the school grounds), on the way she clutched onto you and the others as you helped her up. On the way she kissed Penelope (and that may have hurt, may have felt like a betrayal no matter how irrational it was, but you were glad Josie was alive enough to do it). And you could not help the bitter thought: Soulmates are nothing but pain. Yet something in your chest tightens painfully at the thought of your soulmate being someone else, and you know that it is not Josie’s fault. Then you had another thought, more of an acrid realization: Being a Mikaelson is painful.

* * *

You stood over Malivore, once again, and of all the things you had expected to run through your mind relief was far from the first guess. Maybe now Josie could get a better soulmate, she deserved someone great (someone who was not afraid to tell her who they are). She would be happier without you constantly poking her, even if you were somewhat friends at this point (and when you saw her, dying from the bullet, it took everything you had to walk away and even then there was still the crushing pain and worry that she is _gone_ ). You almost told her then, but it was selfish- she did not need to deal with that before she died. That did not stop your hands from dialing her number.

Relief and pain, a confusing mix, filled your chest as Josie picked up. Safe and sound, healed completely. And you are glad it worked (but it means you have to die, you were right, and the cost is so high). A sob tore its way from your throat, stopping Josie’s excited rendition of the victory at the school.

“Hope, wha-“

“Josie,” your voice trembled over her name and, god, what you wouldn’t have given to taken away every awful thing you ever said or did to push her away, “I need you to listen to me. Gather up all my stuff, my files, and burn them.”

“Why? Hope, what’s going on?”

“It’ll be easier this way.” Josie’s voice is so confused, cautious and worried. If asked, you would not have been able to pinpoint when the tears started pouring down your face (when Josie first started speaking, when the realization you would never see or hear her again hit with a painful clarity). “You need to do it, records will just complicate things.”

Easier this way. For them, they won't have to stand in an empty room (a memorial to someone they _knewneverknewlost)_ filled with items belonging to a dead girl and wonder where it came from. Won't waste resources for a search that won't end. But you're scared, you are fucking _terrified_ , actually. At the thought that no one will mourn you or remember you (remember trying to teach Landon how to bake, remember how Josie proudly wore the gift _you_ gave her, remember the little smile your father reserved just for you). No one will remember, and you will be too dead to do so. But you have to be strong (strong enough to keep all of the bad things away). 

"Malivore.” Her voice shook. And that was not the last thing you wanted to hear from her, you should not have called, you should have let her be happy. But then, she will not remember any of this in a moment. “Hope, no, you _can’t_.“

“Please,” Hearing her, the pain and how distraught she sounds, it _hurt_ like nothing ever has. You hear movement, as if she is running to try and tell someone, find someone to convince you (and no one would have been able to but her, but Josie was always blind to her power over you). “Just promise me you’ll do this.”

“You can’t ask me to do that. You can’t ask me to _erase_ you!”

“You’re the one I trust with this.” Someone sucked in a breath, and you could not tell if it was her or yourself. The phone shook in your hands, and your vision was so cloudy with tears by now that it was difficult to see. “I’m a tribrid, the blood of a wolf, witch, and vampire can unmake Malivore. The blood worked on you after all. I’m Nature’s loophole.” Despite having your ‘purpose’ revealed, there was a bitter taste in your mouth that was not just from the tears. “Oh, and, uh, make a note to get Landon.”

“Hope!” Josie ignored your last sentence, an obvious topic change, and shouted with more pain than fury. “You were not made to _die_! Don’t you dare leave!”

“Maybe if I had figured it out sooner, that would be true.” And you almost believe that. But then, your entire family has either died or lost someone at some point. It makes sense you would follow in their footsteps. “It’s my ‘hero’ moment.”

“Let someone else do it for once!” Josie is pleading, and you falter for a moment. You could- no. No. No hesitation or doubt. “Please, just come back.”

“There’s something you should know, Josie.” Even if the memory was going to be wiped from her, this was a secret you could not keep any longer. One that had been tearing at your throat to escape. And her name was whispered with a reverence, as if you could fit all the pain and love and anguish into those two syllables. “I got all your writings. I’m sorry I only responded the once. I was scared.”

You chuckled, a wet sound that was more like someone choking. You were scared and yet telling her right then felt like _freedom_. It was silent. Long enough that you had begun to worry she had hung up, in some desperate attempt to reach you before you jumped into Malivore. But then a shuddering breath echoed across the line.

“You..I..I thought maybe, but-“ She started and trailed off multiple times, as if there were so many things she wanted to say but her mouth was unable to put everything into words fast enough. “You never said anything.”

And that hits you like a staff to the chest from Alaric. If you could have damned yourself to hell, you would have but you were sure there was a pretty good chance that was what you were on the way to. Responses flitted through your mind, apologies and explanations, but all of them were lacking. A particularly angry sound came from below the railing, and a glance downwards has you panicking. The bubbling surface forming a face in agony for a split second. You were out of time.

“I have to go.”

“Wait, Hope, no, don’t-“

The line clicked dead.

* * *

The ground below you is soft. It smells of dirt and leaves and life. You open your eyes, and the stars are bright. Light filters through the canopy above, shadowed by leaves and dancing across the sky in vibrant colours, it is one of the most beautiful things you have ever seen.

Air, clean and fresh and somehow lighter than the staleness of Malivore, fills your lungs. You reach up, feeling the blood crusting your throat and crunching, but your throat is whole. Unlike the silence of Malivore, animals and bugs fill the silence, the rustling of leaves in a faint wind, everything beats with vitality. It is almost overpowering after (months? Days? Years?) your time in the dark.

Moving is easy, almost easier than it should be, as you push yourself upright. Walking is odd, you are so used to the even surface of Malivore that feeling things below your feet feels wrong, but it grounds you in a way the is almost unnerving. You feel the trees, the rough bark against your fingertips is so different from the blood and muscle and fur you had felt in your fights. You feel the blood, dried and crunching with every movement, on our throat.

For a moment, you think that this is a lie, a trick, but when you cast a spell, there are no screams or roars. Your head is empty, except for your own thoughts. And you laugh, a hysterical thing that has you bent over with tears streaming down your face as you clutch and pull at the dirt and leaves just to _feel_ something.

You wake. Alone, in the forest, and it is _loud_. 


	2. Seeing Ghosts (is it you or them?)

I fall asleep in the full and certain hope That my slumber shall not be broken; And that, though I be all-forgetting, Yet shall I not be all-forgotten, But continue that life in the thoughts and deeds of those I have loved.

S. Butler

You have a job. A boring and normal job. It’s almost disturbing. The coffee shop, Impresso Espresso, is decent and your boss- Samuel- was willing to give you an advance on pay so you could afford to stay in the hotel. You almost wish that someone from school could see you now, dressed in a black apron and a grin as you tell shitty coffee puns (that you’ll never admit you love). Of all the things you could be in danger from, being recognized as the daughter of ‘The Great Evil’ is far from one of them. It’s become something of a haven for you, work is better than being alone with your thoughts and nothing to do.

But right now, right now you’re focused on nothing but calming down. The smell of coffee is overpowering, clinging to your clothes and almost burning as it curls in your nose, but it is a centre. You are grateful for the near pain such a strong smell brings, because the scent of humans (of their blood) is beginning to sting your throat. Curled in a ball on the ground of the employee bathroom, door locked, you hold your breath and focus on your heart rate. It is a dangerous, painful trick (you still need air) that has left you unconscious more than once but it removes the encompassing _hunger_ as your brain begins to panic.

Even if you were not a tribrid, a true one, before Malivore you did not ignore that part of you (or the possibility of it becoming activated). You were stronger and faster as a wolf than most other, those with age- like Keelin- were still leagues above you but the distance closed as you grew. And now, now you don’t know. All you know is that everything is sharp and loud and too much. Too much noise can overwhelm you more than blood. After months of silence and darkness, the sudden change (and some days you wake up and have to touch and walk and see to remind yourself that this is real) is a lot to cope with. Every smell assaults your nose, demanding equal attention, but in the coffee shop you can focus on that one permeating scent. And by focusing on the smell, removing the noise, holding your breath, you are able to calm.

Climbing to your feet, the same unnatural grace you noticed in the forest still present, and you clutch onto the sink as you take deep shuddering breaths to ensure your control has returned. And although the burn does not quite lessen, it does not take your thoughts into something more primal. Looking in the mirror does help to shock you from the haze as well. Instead of the golden eyes you are used too, they are darker. Less bright yellow and more of a molten gold with streaks of black edging in. Remnants of time in Malivore, you think. It hurts, the colour of your eyes was something you could look at and see your parents in. 

You have not been using your first name, instead using your middle. Perhaps your parents would be disappointed that you are not using the name they gave you, the name your mother whispered with such love and the way your father looked at you as if he saw nothing but _good_. But you’re not sure you live up to it, with how you are all but running from your friends even if you remain in the same town. With how you are living a lie. Would they be proud? Proud of their daughter that does not stop running, with walls so high that you are not even sure where they end? You had always wished to live up to the name, but after your past- and current- actions you do not feel very deserving. The colour fades from your eyes and, as you leave the bathroom, all worries and thoughts are pushed to the back of your mind.

Maya, your coworker, shoots you a small grin as she moves to let you behind the counter. And you return to work with a half-faked smile and mindless motions. There are the entertaining customers; one of the regular’s, a woman, comes in shaking and hunched slightly with a crazed look in her eyes. It almost worries you as she practically demands,

“Venti. Filled with espresso.”

The first time you heard the order, it made you blanch in disgust. But the woman didn’t even blink as she grabbed the cup and drank the scalding liquid. Just as she does this time, but unlike before she offers an explanation before stalking off,

“Twins. Evil, sleepless _twins_.”

…You wonder if Caroline and Alaric had similar difficulties raising the twins and it’s amusing to imagine Alaric huddled over a cup of coffee as he stares with dead eyes at the ever perky Caroline. The smile on your lips turns a tad more real at the image. Most of the regulars are still curious about you, and you _lielielie_ through your teeth when they ask about you. Sometimes, students from Mystic High come in. Most just say high to Maya and ignore you, but some of them try to make conversation which…well, you never really have been good at small talk and you’re pretty sure that a couple of the students are terrified of you now. Not entirely a bad thing, they can be rather annoying (it’s odd, seeing people your age and realizing these are _kids_ , when you are so used to a school of mostly traumatized students). 

So, when the door opens and chattering kids come in, you assume it is some students from Mystic High. You bite back a groan, hoping that it isn’t some of the kids that give you the weird as hell orders (who asks for elven shots of caramel in an latte?). And then you look up as they approach the counter and nearly choke, a weird order is the least of your worries. Looking back at you, from across the counter, are Landon and Josie. 

You had seen her around town (and you had been about to leave, maybe head for New Orleans or just…anywhere but then you saw her and you…you couldn’t). But seeing her up close, with her hair brushed forward over one shoulder and eyes sparkling with mirth as she laughs at one of Landon’s jokes, it steals the breath from your chest. Her eyes have always drawn you in. Dark, like soil and (hah) coffee, endless but not in the way that Malivore made you feel, it is as if you are being given a glimpse of how she feels. Be that elation, sadness, or anger, her eyes are so expressive that they absorb you. 

And then you realize that you have been staring for longer than is really appropriate. You look down, hair falling forward as you feel your cheeks flush, but manage to ask for their orders without stuttering. Josie looks at you, something in her eyes that makes you nervous as it seems she is trying to piece something together. 

Your hands shake as you make their orders, and Maya looks at you with poorly hidden concern. The scarf around your neck feels itchy, as if the scar beneath it (jagged and torn skin- it is the only scar you have ever had) is being rubbed raw, and you subtly adjust it to make sure no one can see the skin below it.

It’s a miracle nothing spills or falls over, but even in the middle of a breakdown the grace is still there and you demand nothing less than the utter control from your movements (even if you cannot stop the way your heart beats so erratically it hurts). But even as your body goes through the motions, your mind is far from the shop. It is in the compound with Malivore, it is in the park across the street where Josie fell over as you poked yourself, it is at school with her admitting an old crush with a careless shrug to hide any worry she felt. It is on what you could have had

Maya moves past, a quick brush of a hand on your shoulder, and the movement does not abate your panic but it grounds you. Reminds you that you’re in the small coffee shop with no monsters or keys. But, as you hand over their orders with still shaking hands, you look at the two of them and see your soulmate and the boy who helped you learn to trust again.

But they look at you, and they see a stranger (and would they be wrong?).

* * *

Maya laughs, loud and free, as she loops an arm through yours. The sun is bright, and even if you don’t quite feel overheated- that’s difficult, even though wearing a scarf and sweater makes you look weird- the warmth makes you feel lazy and happy like a fat cat. Lunch is normally eaten quickly, in the alley behind the shop, with minimal fuss and a quick swig from the thermos containing animal blood (disgusting, but not as awful as the expired blood you nabbed from a blood bank). But your coworker (…friend?) wouldn’t stop badgering you to come home for lunch. She’s looked worried since Josie entered the shop and you had a quiet breakdown. 

Despite living in the town, you have not spent much time here. It has its own charm, quaint and small, yet not overly so. You wonder what your father thought of this place, if he walked all the places you are. He’d probably sneer slightly, the emotion pulling at his lips and darkening his eyes, as he hides the pain he felt at the memories (of Caroline- you’re pretty sure she was his soulmate). But your mother would have liked it. It seems a little too dull for you. Not because of the history, there is a long and bloody history here, but everyone seems so stuck in their ways. New Orleans is beautiful, full of life and culture, but ghosts haunt the corners there as much as here- you would not be able to live there for long. Maybe you’ll go to Europe, get out of America entirely. But that would require getting some fake paperwork, not extremely difficult (you are your father’s daughter) but it would be costly. 

A jab to the side, you look at Maya and hum slightly, the sound curious, she rolls her eyes in exasperation,

“You didn’t hear a _word_ of what I said.” 

It’s not a question, and all you can do is shrug at her sheepishly. Thankfully, there is no anger in her eyes as she begins again. Recounting a story of her brother and his teammates sneaking a cow into an opposing school’s locker room. 

You’re quieter than normal, even from before Malivore when you spoke to barely anyone. Sometimes you talk to yourself in the hotel room, just to prove that your voice still works ( _a wordless scream_ ) and to stave off the silence. But in conversations, you like to listen. Maybe it’s because you never really listened to your friends (you don’t really know much about Josie, besides her being your soulmate, as you spent years trying to avoid her) and now you want nothing more than to know every little facet possible. Every little thing that makes them, them. So that you don’t ever forget. 

She, Maya, comes to a stop at a nice house. White picket fence and all, with a police car in the driveway. Despite having done nothing wrong, the sight makes you nervous, and it doesn’t fade entirely as Maya leads you- drags you- inside. 

There are trophies on the wall when you walk in, for sports and cheerleading, with various other pictures of the family at various ages. It’s clean, but there is a sports jersey laying across a chair and a pom-pom on one of the smaller tables. By the door, there’s a rack with a holster and a jacket- with the name Sheriff Machado on it. It’s very…cozy. Not as in diminutive, no, but in that you can tell there is a family here. An odd feeling of melancholy washes over you. But it’s wiped away as Maya turns to you with an excited grin.

“Mom’s home! Awesome, I was hoping to introduce you two, you’ll like her. She has the same…” She makes a gesture at you, “intimidating-ness going on.”

“Really.” Intimidating-ness? It’s ridiculous, and even if your voice is flat a smile still curls the corner of your mouth at her. “Maybe she can give me some pointers. Or maybe it’s genetic, it skipped you.”

“Yeah, but I got all the good looks and,” she winks at you rakishly, “all the flexibility.”

That provokes an outright laugh, and the two of you are still giggling as she leads you into the kitchen. Her mother, or you think it’s her mother, is standing at the fridge with a small frown on her face. She doesn’t even look up as she says,

“I think your brother took the last of the- oh.” The sudden silence as she sees you is nerve-racking. “Who is this?”

“Andrea! She’s a coworker, and instead of letting her eat a miserable lunch in whatever corner she hides in today,” Maya ignores the glare you send her, “I figured that some actual human interaction would be good.”

“You act like I’m a complete recluse.”

Maya doesn’t respond, instead smiling at her mother. Like she has just brought home a stray puppy. It’s an entirely novel situation, for you at least but from the look on Sheriff Machado’s face she is used to it. But you can see what Maya meant with the intimidating-ness, the way Sheriff Machado carries herself is very…not quite confident, but at home in her own skin (and how does Maya see that in you? When some days you literally shed your own skin to escape the feeling of jaws around your throat). Yet the Sheriff’s face softens as she smiles at you, 

“Well, then come on in, Andrea.”

It’s a good lunch. For the first time in- well, for the first time since you left Malivore- you feel content. Laughing with the Sheriff over Maya’s childhood stories and tales about your wildest customer (with slight exaggerations, of course), it’s a domestic scene. And when Maya asks, as you’re leaving for yet another shift, if you had a good time. You respond with the truth (one of the only truths you’ve spoken since leaving Malivore),

“It was…great.”

* * *

Walking in the woods is something of a past time for you. It reminds you of when you woke, gasping in air that could not fill your lungs enough and raking your hands through the dirt that was proof Malivore was no more (nothing more than a scorched pit of earth). The crunch of leaves beneath your feet, the brush of plants against your legs and arms, even the annoying noise of cicadas, it all reminds you of _life_. And it allows you to relax in the shadows, beneath the sparkling sky and the smell of grass, more than you ever can in the city. Being surrounded by the life, the pureness, of nature allows you to push back the memories (of _unanturalunaturalunatural_ black, of teeth that you never saw, of blood and wordless screams) and instead revel in the fact that you have survived.

You’ve drawn the stars multiple times, the constellations, the way the light shadows the forest and dances through the trees to light the ground. The feel of a pencil in your hand, and memories of your father that are less painful than they once were, comfort you as much as the forest itself. It has been some time since you ran as a wolf (and that part of you rages, screams, and tears at the chains you have put on it) but you can’t do it often, or you risk Alaric finding you. But when you do run, everything seems so simple. Nothing matters beyond running and jumping, beyond the freedom of sprinting with wild abandon and the feeling of flinging your head back to howl all the feelings you keep hidden in the day.

But, as a growl comes from the brush- low and rough and bestial- you are glad you did not shift. A wolf (so far from school?) and it is not just any wolf. Rafael. Your first instinct, inappropriately, is to curse and fling your hands in the air. Today seems to be ‘shove Hope’s pain in her face’ say and it fucking _sucks_. The second, and far more reasonable, realization, is that it is not a full moon. And the last time you checked, Rafael was not part of the Crescent pack. The ring. He must have used the ring when you were gone, before you jumped into Malivore. But why didn’t Alaric contact Freya or someone? They could have reversed it. He’s not so stubborn as to let his dislike of Mikaelsons keep Rafael in wolf form? But there is no way to know, all you know is that Raf is here- stuck in wolf form- and you can help.

You’re glad that you had the forethought (the paranoia) to wear your normal scarf and hoodie into the woods. Hiding who you are is easier when the hood obscures your face and a quick tug covers the lower half with a scarf. Rafael circles you, sniffing the air, and there is a feral look in his eyes that worries you. He’s losing himself to the wolf. Something must still register though, as a look of…not quite sanity, but intelligence fills his gaze.

“I can help you.” The sound of your own voice is nearly surprising, but you wouldn’t take offer back even if it was half considered before you blurted it out. Rafael was once your friend, and you are the one who got him into this situation. “The magic on you, I can reverse it.”

It’s cryptic and dramatic, you know that, but it is better to seem eccentric than risk giving away something much larger. Although, of all the possibilities your classmates would jump to, being the child of Niklaus and Hayley that was wiped from their memory after sacrificing herself is quite possibly the absolute least likely one. Rafael moves forward once it becomes clear you will not be intruding into his space (risking what little intelligence falling into instincts would be dangerous). He comes to rest a foot away from you, his eyes trace up and down your form, sizing you up. For a moment, as his muscles tense, you think he is going to run. But then he sits on his hindquarters and looks at you expectantly.

“No cost or anything, there will be the pain of a shift though. Do you accept?”

He watches you, eyes sharp and bright in the dark, before a sharp jerk of his head. A nod.

As you said, there is the pain of a shift as you reverse the magic but it is not a difficult task. When it is over, however, you realize there is one minor detail you overlooked in your desire to help. Rafael has not clothes. You spin around, smacking yourself in the face with your hair, and then berate yourself for turning your back to him. While you hold memories of a friendship, he believes you to be a strange witch. But Rafael does nothing but speak,

“Th- Thanks."

It’s more than a little rough, as if Raf’s tongue is relearning how tome and it stumbles over the words with the pain of a shift making the words even deeper. You wave him off, the more you speak that more he could recognize your voice later. His eyes are on your back, pointed and questioning, and you can imagine him opening his mouth to ask the question: who are you? But it does not come, instead the noise of him crumpling to the ground reaches you. Even with his hearing, he either did not care or did not notice you mutter the spell under your breath that sent him to sleep. He’ll wake up (cold and dirty and very much naked) and hopefully he will chalk it up to some kind of fever dream. Tampering with his memories is a possibility but there is always a risk with that, compulsion is out as no witch would have it and the witch version of it is rare enough that it would bring questions of its own. So you leave him there, a slight protection spell if anything happens across him, and pocket the ring as you walk away.

With your speed, the hotel is only about thirty minutes away (twenty, but you covered your tracks. As you swing the door shut and lean against it with a sigh, you can’t help but wonder if what you did was right. Alaric would have reached out eventually to get one of your family members to help, and Raf wouldn’t have been in that form forever. But you could already see the toll it was taking on him, the ring was not meant to be used for so long and the longer Rafael was a wolf the higher the risk that when he was turned back, it would not be him. So yes, it was a risk and perhaps even a needless one, but it is not one you would take back. Although, you do regret seeing Rafael naked, you could have _definitely_ gone without that.

* * *

You wake (darkness, pain, and shifting images that make little sense but all you can feel is _dangerdangerdanger_ ) with a hand at your throat. And it is not like you do not know where you are, that moment fades quickly, yet the panic has seeped into your bones. It takes time for your breathing to even out, yet the fear and skittishness will curl around your muscles and have you jumping at shadows. All the knowledge in the world that you are safe, that there are no monsters, will not help. Because your fear is not logical (and you hate that you can’t control it).

Light, even when you go to sleep every light in the room is turned on, spills across you and the bed beneath you is lumpy. The room is, frankly, shitty. But it’s yours. Having a space where you know every corner, every squeak of the floorboards, helps with the memories. But there is still a…a distance. Because this space is not truly yours, even if drawings are taped to the wall, it is missing the quiet noise that used to come from the witch who roomed below you and it is missing the small ding near the door when Alaric startled you- you threw a paintbrush so hard it embedded into the wall. It’s missing all the little things that you had built up over the years. Yet you can’t dwell on that for long, because you are already living in the past far too much to be healthy. 

An itch flits across your stomach and with it comes a mix of elation and despondency. In Malivore, you did not get the writings. That’s part of why you were so convinced you were dead. But they came back the morning after you left Malivore, as if they had never stopped. Some parts of you wants to resent the writing, a reminder of something you no longer can have, but another part of you revels in seeing the handwriting. Hearing about Josie’s day makes something in your chest ease, even if it does nothing to fill the gaping hole ( the _hollowness_ , the complete and utter _stillness_ that is purely Malivore) resting inside you that leaves you feeling cold even in the heat of day. 

Faced with difficult truths and emotions, you turn to what you always have. Drawing. Well, painting is what you prefer but paint is very expensive on your salary. Maybe you could access the trust fund your father left, but there is the possibility Aunt Rebekah would be notified as she’s your guardian and that…would be bad. Contacting her has come to mind a number of times but there is a fear that holds you back. Because she will look at you the exact same way Landon, Josie and Rafael have. Then, once she learns the truth, what will she think? Will she be disappointed in you? You don’t think you could handle that. So…you don’t contact her, or any other member of your family.

Your father is the first one you draw. His angular chin and curled smirk, not the kind he wore when hurt and angry as a mask, but the softer kind that made his eyes seem less like the sea before a storm with the shadows of his past and more like a cool summer day as he laughed so lightly. You can’t quite capture it, but you try. You try to fill the page with his larger than life aura, with how he may have dwarfed you but his movements were tender and sometimes you drowned in the love in his eyes. 

The next page is filled with your mother’s face. Her grin and crinkled eyes are more expressive than your father’s but no less genuine. Sometimes, you could see fear and paranoia grip her as she fought it back but none of that is in your drawing. You draw the slight curl to that grin, the mischievous edge that drew your father in, tempered by kindness. People speak about your father (distaste in their eyes as if they _knew_ him when they didn’t know a damn thing about him beyond his deeds), but they ignore her mother. As if she was not your other parent. As if the only legacy you have is of Niklaus Mikaelson and not of Haley Marshall-Keener as well. 

Drawing helps you remember them, both the good and the bad. Your worst fear is of forgetting them, the way the looked and sounded. Forgetting the warmth in your mother’s eyes as she told you she loved you and the amusement in your father’s as he called you his ‘littlest wolf’. Forgetting is one of your worst fears; and the irony of that is not lost on you.

People say there are two deaths. When your heart stops, and when no one remembers your name. You’ve suffered both. And even though you walk, even though you speak, you are not quite sure you are truly alive anymore.

The sun has only just begun to rise over the horizon as you set the pencil down, early but just late enough you can justify showing up to work. Samuel does not question much, even if the look in his eyes as your hands shake, as a memory from Malivore is a little too loud in your head, is knowing. He was a soldier, you can smell the oil and gun metal on his hands and person from whatever piece he keeps under his shirt, and you see the same shadows in his eyes that stare back at you in the mirror. Perhaps it is that understanding that has him setting you up for whatever shifts you ask for, not questioning how you sometimes take breaks in the middle. He is a good man.

The smell of coffee reaches you, even from half a block away, and some of the fear seeps out of your skin as your muscles relax slightly. It is as much your space as the hotel, the coffee shop filled with people you are coming to recognize- the older couple that always share a slice of lemon cake, the little boy that comes in with his father and is so so shy, the pastor who always has a kind word to say after church- it is safe. Even with the memories brought back yesterday, how the ghosts of your past (are they the ghosts or you?) walking in, it was nice to see them happy. But you can only hope it was a once off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, and reviewed last chapter! Catch ya on the flipside. (Is anyone else kinda mad that the show didn't have an episode for Hope's birthday?? Like, an episode with Freya, Rebekah, and- we were robbed)


	3. Safety and Home (Terror and Shadows)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Not quite fond of this chapter, but I've rewritten it three times and it is important to plot.   
> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and left kudos, it makes me grin like a fool every single time I see one.

Do not stand at my grave and forever cry;  
I am not there. I did not die

Mary Fryer

One week. You have one week of peace and- hah, no. The entire week you are on edge, waiting for someone, Rafael or even Alaric, to jump out of the shadows and confront you, and by the end your nerves are more than frayed. Maya has approached you more than once, wondering if you’re okay. And when the idea that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be fine starts to creep in- everything comes crashing down. And it starts with the jingle of a bell, a noise you are quickly coming to despise,

“-just saying you look like shit.”

“Thanks, Maya. You’re too kind.”

“Get some sleep, babe. But first, customers!”

You roll your eyes and turn to those who entered with a grin. Only for it to become decidedly fixed as you stare at Landon, Rafael, and Josie. They don’t notice you at first, focused on their conversation. Landon is waving his hands, Josie holding back a laugh, and Rafael looks a tad uncomfortable as he glances around at the shop. You recognize the look, it was what you wore the first few weeks out of Malivore when all the people and noises and smells were still new and shocking. And then his gaze lands on you and it sharpens as he breathes, no doubt suddenly realizing the smell of the coffee shop from the forest the other night. Josie smiles at you as you take their orders, and for a second your brain just…pauses before rebooting. 

Maya nudges you slightly as the three sit down, whispering with a smirk tugging at her lips, 

“Did you see those two checkin’ you out?” She pouts, “Even when you look like death warmed over you get all the people. Although, the guy looked a little worried more than attracted. What did you do to scare this one?”

“Nothing!” 

Your voice is maybe a tad too defensive, but Maya just shrugs and goes back to work with a smirk. Damn it, you are actually innocent this time! But that’s not important, the frantic whispering going on over where your three classmates is what’s important. Subtlety is not in their vocabulary. Fondness, a frankly surprising amount, has you stifling a chuckle. Although they probably are not expecting a witch to have supernatural hearing. Just means they aren’t paranoid enough. 

“That’s the girl, the one who changed me! ” Rafael hisses, glancing over at you as you continue to take an order for an older couple with a calm smile. “I recognize her scent. What’s she doing here?” 

Well, Raf, you work here. It’s called a job. 

“Her? Really, Raf?” Josie sounds half way between confused and worried. “Well, there is something…familiar about her.”

That takes the breath from you. Shit. Could they-? No. No one remembers those from Malivore, Josie is probably just mistaking you for someone else (but that does not stop the hope in your chest, even as you try to beat it into a corner with a mental baseball bat). But hearing her voice ( _“Don’t you dare leave!”)_ with something other than the pain that smothered everything else during Malivore, it makes you feel…relaxed and (hurt, look at them, look how happy they are with you _gone_ ) calm. 

“So…should I talk to her?” Landon speaks up, confused and not quite following the conversation but eager to help. “I mean, it isn’t like she could kill me if anything goes wrong.”

Oh dear lord, that boy is…Self-preservation. _Learn it_. As much as you care for your friends, you do wish they would learn some damn survival senses. Rafael approached you, not knowing who the hell you are, and Josie jumped in front of a bullet, and Landon…Well, the entire time he spent around supernaturals when he could have died and was believed to be human (you ignore the little voice in your head yelling: hypocrite). 

For a moment, you consider telling Maya you’ll be taking a break and then running but that would be suspicious. Maybe the next time they would come looking for you they would bring Alaric, and he is more likely to figure it out than anyone with his incessant digging. So instead you continue working. Offering a small smile and a wave at the boy that always hides behind his father’s legs, laughing slightly when he finally offers a small, awkward wave back. His father seems happy, a crooked grin on his lips as he pokes the kid before ordering the same thing as always. 

You like most of the regulars, even if some are not kind they tend to be funny. And the small conversations are pleasant, it can be nice speaking to someone that you do not know and don’t have to fight back memories. Sometimes, the kids from Mystic High can be assholes but Maya puts them in their place. Reminiscing on this allows you to avoid thinking of the group still muttering near the window of the shop. But your attention is pulled that way when Josie finally huffs out in exasperation, 

“You guys are being paranoid. She helped Raf.” Said boy goes to protest but Josie continues speaking before he can. “Even _if_ she isn’t good, we’re in a public place with humans. I’ll talk to her.”

Oh. Oh shit. Nope. You can handle a lot of things. Monsters? Sure. Nightmares? Always have. But a one on one conversation with Josie when looking into her eyes feels like you are drowning in memories that have never really happened to her? No. Lying to Josie is difficult, even after nearly two years of it, doing so hurts in a way that makes you feel like scum. But you don’t have a choice. If you left now, as you hear her moving from her seat, it would not just be suspicious, it would be a flagrant tell that you’re hiding something. At least you can try and pretend to have no idea what they’re talking about. If Raf recognizes you on scent, it is unreliable, one meeting for five minutes isn’t enough. Josie will know that. Hopefully. 

Even steeling yourself, anticipating the pain and sadness and even melancholy for a friendship you are not quite sure was ever truly there (maybe near the end, but even that was…stilted). You did not anticipate the wonder (the awe) as you looked up at her. She’s taller than you, even if she is younger, and you suck in a breath as she smiles down at you. Before Malivore, you were beginning to work on opening up- on making _friends_ and being _happy_ (you even considered telling Josie about the soulmate stuff soon)- and you are starting to regret that. Because you were trying to forget and ignore your instincts of pushing people and emotions away, and you had forgotten how beautiful you found Josie. 

“Hello,” She grins at you, bright and cheery, and forget breathing that’s a loss, maybe your heart will start beating again though. “Uh, my friend, Rafael, recognized you. You two met a last night?”

…Oh, yeah, questions. Lying. Fun times.

“I’m…sorry?” You frown, tilting your head slightly as if thinking back. “No? I don’t think I’ve ever met him.” Feigning confusion is easy as you look over at Rafael for a second. In a false attempt to jog your memory. Josie looks disappointed as you continue, but not suspicious. “Yeah, I haven’t met him. Maybe he mistook me for someone else?” 

“I- yeah, maybe.” Internally, you’re pleading for her to just go back to her table (and also hoping she never leaves), but you keep a calm look on your face. “I didn’t even introduce myself, I’m Josie.”

“Call me Andrea.”

She stands in front of the counter, shuffling from foot to foot, searching for something to say. A heavy sigh, she fidgets with a bracelet on her wrist, and asks,

“Look, if you were in the woo-“

“-Andrea! Can you check the machine, it’s on the fritz again.”

No machine in this shop has _ever_ malfunctioned, but Maya seems to have a sixth sense for when you’re uncomfortable. Typically she uses it to embarrass you, but sometimes she helps you and it makes you glad she’s your coworker. Doomed by the bell, and saved by a friend. You smile at Josie apologetically, 

“Sorry, I better check that out.”

Turning away, you walk towards the machine without a second glance. The only time you look back in their direction is when the three of them leave, and Josie is staring at you with something like uncertainty and curiosity on her face. A dangerous combination. 

* * *

“I told you it wasn’t much.”

Perhaps you feel a tad, not ashamed, but sad at the sight of your room- a hotel room. But Maya doesn’t even blink at it, instead just raising an eyebrow at you.

“Sweetie, from the way you were talking I anticipated a dilapidated shack in the woods.”

And, okay, maybe you were a tad dramatic in your descriptions, but hearing her wave it off makes you feel a little better. She sets her bag down next to the bed, a big duffle bag that dwarfs your own (when you had question why she felt the need to pack her house she just stared at you until you let the question drop). Inviting her over was an awkward endeavor, you had wanted to hang out with her (spend time with someone who does not make you feel like panicking) but hadn’t found the chance. Until she brought up a movie and you casually mentioned that you hadn’t even heard of it. She looked so completely _offended_ at the comment that she essentially told you she would be coming over to watch it with you.

She’s a lot like Aunt Rebekah in that regard, in her forcefulness and the way she always seemed so put together. Yet where your Aunt seemed softer, less sure of herself even after hundreds of years, Maya is confident with a sort of recklessness that you can only assume is her youth (to fear nothing, to feel invincible- it is hard to recapture that feeling when you have felt the brush of death)

“So! We’ll start with the first Hobbit and when we finish them…have you seen Nikita?” You shake your head. “Good! You’ll love it, Maggie Q is the star and her jawline could cut _steel.”_

You laugh at her but the serious look on her face doesn’t change. O…kay. You’ve seen Landon look like this a couple times, when he’s ranting about how ‘Aragorn shouldn’t have died’, and it was a little hard to take him seriously at the time- but Maya seems very serious on this. 

“Do I at least get a chance to use the bathroom before you force me to watch movies?”

She glances over at the bag before looking back at you with a raised chin and snooty glare. A pause, as if she is thinking, before she gives a distracted wave.

“Because I am a magnanimous and kind queen, I will allow it.”

“Thanks, o gracious Queen.”

Your tone is dry but as you finish the two of you start laughing, the faux snobby look on Maya’s face cracking into peels of snickers. The bathroom door closes behind you and the sound of blankets shuffling and Maya’s bag being unzipped reaches your ears. 

It’s small, the bathroom, and that should make you feel worried, should bring back the irrational claustrophobia you felt in Malivore (everything too close yet so far, never-ending yet you may not even be moving) but being able to see the walls and the door helps you relax. Maya is a good friend, but sometimes it can be too much. Especially after talking to Josie today. But it’s important to remind yourself that there are people that know you, maybe not in the way you want or had before the jump, and who you can speak with. 

There is another reason you entered the bathroom though, besides catching your breath. The itch across your ribs, from Josie writing. Typically you ignore it, half-hoping (and half-terrified) that one day it will stop. It is not like Josie won’t find happiness, soulmates tend to be almost, but not quite, rare and finding someone without one is not difficult. She was with Penelope, she obviously hasn’t sworn off dating like some people (and it seems almost foolish to you, soulmates are not guaranteed to work out- why deprive yourself of happiness. But then, you never really did seek a relationship out) so she’ll end up with someone who can make her happy. That does not stop you from lifting the tank top, almost guiltily, to peer at the words.

' _I spoke to Andrea today, she felt like-_ “ Your skin, rubbed and bearing ink marks as if Josie could not find the words she needed. But you don’t need to search, because you know what you felt around Josie, the almost uncomfortable feeling of _safety_. She felt like home. And that scared you (it still does). You pull down the tank top and remember why you swore to never look at the words again (it’s too hard, she does not remember you and it is unfair of you to treat her like someone you know, with memories that she does not have clouding your vision, you are afraid you will look at her and just see the past instead of who she is).

As you exit the bathroom, Maya is half flung onto your bed with her own blankets. Covered in some that she must have brought from her house, only her head sticks out from the cocoon and she leans against the backboard of your bed. It makes you wish for a camera, so you could have a picture of her. She shifts impatiently as you sit next to her. 

“I still can’t believe you haven’t seen The Hobbit.”

“Well, where I was didn’t have a movie theatre.”

Bit of an understatement really, but it is as close to the truth you are ever going to get. 

“Sounds like hell to me.”

And you laugh, perhaps tinged with a bit of desperation (laugh because you can, laugh because you are _not_ in Malivore). Maya looks at you as she reaches forward, eager to start the movie back up on her laptop.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

* * *

Josie kept coming back. You barely got a day to rest. She never said much, nothing more than small talk or a hello. But having her so close, seeing her every day…you have never wanted to run so much before (you’ve never wanted to stay so much either). 

She even claimed a seat, the one pressed up against the window where the sun filtered through and poured across the notebooks she always brought. It was always the two same notebooks. One that had more pages than it should have for being so small, and the other was one she would randomly jot down notes in. Her hair, often pulled up in a messy ponytail, flows down her shoulder and falls in gentle waves as she bites the end of her pen. You have to force yourself to look away. 

Most of the time she doesn’t stay long, an hour or two at most, but today Josie had been here for four hours. She kept going to grab an empty cup; forgetting it was empty and going to pick it up before frowning and setting it down, only to repeat the movement a second later. It was painfully adorable, the way her brow would wrinkle and she would let out a half sigh before going back to focus on her work. You watch for a couple more minutes, today is rather empty as it was Sunday- most people are still at church. Around the seventh time of Josie doing her little cup thing, you roll your eyes and move towards the machine. 

“Here.” Josie looks up, a pen between her lips, and for a moment- as she tilts her head and looks from you to the cup- you could almost believe you were back at the school and were studying over a new monster. Late at night, as you find her surrounded by piles of books and dictionaries with tired and determined eyes that stare at you with something near caution and hope.

But reality is a bitch and you never can quite forget the distance between you and your classmates (something you worked so hard at, now you would give anything for a casual touch or hug. Just a reminder you’re not _alone_. But you are). “It’s on the house.”

“Oh! Thanks, but you don’t need to do that. I can pay.”

“It’s not an issue,” A smirk curls the edges of your lips (soft and happy and more familiar than it should be). “You look a little…out of it. Everything okay?”

Perhaps it’s the concern in your voice, or maybe the offer of a free drink (black coffee, as always) but Josie stares at you for a moment, searching for something. Before she smiles and looks back down at the notebooks. She closes it, you don’t quite get a glimpse before she does so, and gestures at the them with no small amount of frustration. 

“Yeah, I’m just trying to find something.”

A monster? No, there hasn’t been any of the signs (and you’ve been circling the school every so often and listening to see- nothing but mindless gossip). Probably a school project. Or she’s trying to figure out how Rafael was turned back…

“Anything I can do to help?”

It’s an odd offer, one you would not have made if you truly were a stranger, but- even when the two of you were at odds- it was hard seeing Josie struggling. She’s going to refuse, she opens her mouth and her head is already moving to shake- and then she pauses. Looking you up and down, searching again, and then she smiles again (you’re sure that smile is going to kill you, if Malivore hadn’t already done that). 

“Talking about it may help, would you…are you busy?”

Even if you were, your response would be the same. It is harder now, to refuse and lie to Josie. Maybe it is because you have been without her. Months in Malivore without the words etching themselves across your stomach, months in which all you could do was _think_. And now…now you are just _tired_. Tired of lying, of running, of pushing people away. You may not be able to tell Josie or anyone the truth (telling them you cared for them- loved them- only to have them look at you like a stranger would be cruel to both you and them) but you can help when she needs it. 

“For you? Never.”

Josie flushes slightly, glancing downwards, and it’s such a pretty little movement that it takes your thoughts from you. Tribrid, a true one now, and nearly as strong as your father was (and you will only be getting stronger) yet a girl holds power over you that even your family could barely match. And she does not even know it. When your mother spoke of an epic love, she probably meant for it to be reciprocal but…even if you only ever had these little conversations with Josie, you could accept that. 

“So,” You look at her, draping yourself across the chair languidly, “what’s bothering you?”

“It’s a research project, for school-“ She pauses, most likely trying to sort through what she can and can’t tell someone who is ‘unaware’ of the supernatural, “- and I’m trying to find some records for it but the only place I can think of would require a road trip.” 

“Why not go?”

Alaric, probably. It makes sense, with you gone he’s probably been with his children more often. The anger, that it took you _dying_ for him to do so, is irrational. But you can’t help it. You saw how he looked at you, as if waiting for you to snap, as if you were nothing more than a ticking bomb. Yet, Josie may play at being the Good Girl, but you know she’ll break every rule in the book to get what she wants. So why hasn’t she gone?

“My dad is…a little overprotective.” She grimaces, eyes turned inward and on a memory, before coming back with a slight shrug. You pat yourself on the back for the right guess. “He’ll be taking in a couple of weeks, but…I don’t want to wait that long.”

Hah! Impatient. A smile takes over your face as Josie looks embarrassed. Whatever she’s researching, it could be related to you- even if it is self-centered to believe that, you’d like to think that _someone_ noticed you were gone- and that’s..dangerous. So, the advice you would normally give- go for it, worry later- won’t do. 

“Well, you may not want to wait but it seems like you should.” Be patient, coming from _you_ , you’re surprised you don’t burst into flames at the hypocrisy. “The project won’t up and disappear, right?”

“No, no, it won’t. You’re right it’s just…”

Josie pouts as she trails, an expression that you are sure had her parents doing whatever she wanted when she was younger. You pick up where she left off, amusement plain to hear in your voice,

“You’re anxious to know.”

“Exactly.”

You’ll look back on this conversation, and realize it is when you were completely screwed (and you would not change it for anything). 

* * *

You two chat more after that, nothing as long as the first, but little conversations about your day and even some flirts (you can’t quite stop yourself). It’s…it is _normal_. Some days, you can almost pretend that you’ll be going to school after a shift, or that Josie is sitting in the corner keeping you company, that Landon will come in and make shitty joke or reference that you don’t get. 

On the harder days, the days where you see ghosts out of the corner of your eye, when you wake up clutching your throat expecting blood to be pouring from it, on the days where you feel so completely and utterly _alone_. On those days, you want nothing more than to reach out and talk to someone. 

It’s on one of those days, when you are nearing a breaking point, that someone begins following you home from the coffee shop. They aren’t half bad, and if it was not for your senses they may have gotten away with it. But you walk down an alley, a dead end, and turn clutching a canister of pepper spray (Samuel pushed it into your hands with a grunt when he learned you were alone, a careful eye watching you as gratitude tightened your chest). 

“Whoever is following, come out.” Silence. Despite your efforts, your temper begins to rise. “I’m not in the mood! Come. Out.”

A shadow steps around the corner, or at least to human eyes it would be a shadow. But you see the guilty form of Rafael slink towards you- and, god, if you were human it would look menacing in the shadows, he needs to work on his body language. But you are not supposed to know him, so instead of showing how relief seeps into your bones (how the memories of being stalked, of being _hunted_ , quiet slightly), you tense up and hold the pepper spray in front of you.

“Wh- why are you following me?”

You stutter, not out of fear but out of the laughter you have to hide at the sheer absurdity of the situation. It seems you didn’t manage to quell their suspicions after all, but this is still reckless. 

“You were the one to turn me back.” Points for drama, less points for creepy stalkerness. “I just want to know why.”

“I don’t even know who you are! Just leave me alone!”

Raf pauses, hesitating, before he sniffs the air and shakes his head resolutely. Damn, so close. He whispers something, you don’t quite hear- too caught up in trying to get out of this situation- and then in a blur of movement you are pressed up against the wall with MG staring at you and Rafael approaching. 

“Sorry about this,” His eyes narrow and the telltale look of him trying to compel someone comes. “Tell us who you are.” It does not work, vampires can not compel supernatural creatures unless they are an Original. MG steps back with a self-satisfied grin, as if expecting the compulsion to not work. “Raf, you were right. She isn’t human.”

There goes your chance to play along. Honestly, you should have known better (ignore the fact the memories pressed in, how you were expecting pain at the touch because that was all you knew for over two months). So, you start to lie and bluff out the ass.

“Are you freaking kidding me!?” Both boys look taken aback at your outburst, you take advantage of it to stalk forward and jab a finger into Rafael’s chest. “Normal life, that’s all I wanted! Why couldn’t you leave me alone?”

“I-uh- you.” He stutters, looking to MG for help but the vampire is as stunned as he is. “You took the curse off, I wanted to..I wanted to know how.”

“It wasn’t a curse, first off,” Seriously, a curse? People would kill, have killed, for the ring! It’s an heirloom, not a curse! “but that explains why no one at your school was able to reverse it, they were looking at it wrong.” Alaric should have known better, but maybe he was busy? “Second, I may be a witch but I am sure as hell trying to stay out of all this stuff!”

“But, then why did you help?”

You stare at him, as much trying to make him feel like an idiot as you are trying to come up with a half-decent lie. He looks different. You didn’t notice it in the forest, but he looks…older (which, no duh, he is) but it’s odd. Two months in Malivore and a month (and a half) out of it, you wouldn’t expect your classmates to change. Maybe it is because he was in wolf form so long, but there’s a…an aura of ease that he didn’t have before. The constant edge that made it seem like he could snap seems weaker. And maybe it is that which hurts more than seeing your classmates look at you without recognition, it is seeing them _change_. Seeing them grow and move on while you are still stuck in the past, going through the motions. You stayed, to see Josie, to protect them, to see if anything happened, but you are not living. Leaving may not be something you want to do, but it may be healthier for you to get away from the constant reminders of what you could have had. 

You helped Rafael, changed him back, and no matter what you tell yourself about helping a friend, in all honesty (honesty, painful and sharp and yet you miss being honest) he is not your friend anymore. He is someone you used to know, and from his point of view there is not even that. You scarified so much to save them, to help protect them, and you would not change that but why does that mean you had to save him this time? Why couldn’t you let someone else do it and let yourself _rest_ for once?

But you know why. Because as much as you like to tell yourself that these are not your friends, as much as you try not to see memories when you look at them and force yourself to constantly remember these are not the people you knew, you still care for them. You still love them. And that is your selfishness. Because you would do anything to protect them, and the rest of the world could burn for all you care (and you are so, so _tired_ of caring and worrying). 

In the end, for all your thinking and planning and scheming, the only thing you have to tell Raf, the one answer you can offer, is a lie that burns on your tongue before it even hits the air. 

“I don’t know.”

Pushing past Raf, you stomp down the alley. Expecting a hand on your shoulder, expecting one of them to stop you. They don’t.


	4. Monsters and Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Graphic depiction of a panic attack, if you need to skip it it starts at "nonononono" and ends at "you are still shaking slightly"  
> Cos: This is one of my favourite chapters that I have written so far, I hope you guys enjoy it!

“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."

Mark Twain

In the- relative- safety of the hotel room, you sink down onto the ratty mattress with a groan. Holding your head in your hands, the TV drones into the silence as you contemplate beating some common sense into your classmates. Cornering an unknown witch, trying to make her give up secrets, and then using a vampire to try and prove you know she’s a witch. You could have hurt them, burnt them alive (your hand was almost twitching in the movements to do so when MG grabbed you, before you were able to remind yourself that these are people you know). Then they let you go, which was almost as idiotic as them cornering you. Of all the classes at school, of fighting and history and tactics, why do they not offer a course on common sense? But then, you are as bad as they are- at least you know it, though.

Your duffle bag rests by the door, full of all your worldly belongings (everything else gone, burned for a second time at Josie’s hand, but this time you begged her to do it), and you contemplate running- not for the first time. It would be difficult, the hotel is nice enough to let you pay all at once when you get a check (and you know they’ve been lowering the price, the way the older woman looks at you with something like understanding as you hand over the money) and finding another place with what meager cash you have would take time, getting a job would be even worse. Living on the streets for a time would likely be an eventuality instead of a possibility. 

One month. You can stay until school starts up again, but then you’ll leave. It should be enough time to save up money, to find a new place to go, and you will get to say goodbye. Goodbye to people who will never know what you did for them. 

And it is not about glory, you do not want them to praise or thank you (or to try and relate or feel grateful for the hell you went through, the time in the _stillness_ that lingers even now) but…you just want them to look at you and _see_ you. Sometimes…(sometimes you think- when Josie looks at you with a searching gaze, eyes so _dark_ and _warm_ and _alive_ that you could drown- you think that maybe she sees you. But then it’s gone) you consider telling them, screaming and raging at the unfairness of it all as you yell your love and care for them. Those thoughts are quickly smothered.

Staying to say goodbye it a stupid, sentimental thing. You mother would like it. Maybe not the whole painful and heart wrenching stuff (she was a romantic, but after everything with your father, she was a fan of the softer romances instead of reading about a pain she lived), but she would cheer you on. After slapping you upside the head for not telling Josie about being her soulmate, and probably for sacrificing yourself. But leaving will give you a chance to move on (and maybe one day you can come back, maybe you can see Josie and see her instead of memories).

The lights in the room are on, the TV is running at an incessant hum, and the bed is too small as you crawl into it. You can’t sleep in the dark anymore (waking up, gasping and crying and panic as you are back in Malivore, shaking as reality and memories blend together until you are _stuck_ somewhere in between with your panic) so the routine turning everything on is a familiar one. And sometimes you dislike the fact you are a tribrid, that you can still sleep- need to on some level- because you think that not sleeping would be easier (and yet, you remember how your Aunt looked when she spoke about her desire to be human, how sleeping was one of the things she missed, how she missed being able to let go for a time even if it was interrupted). 

Yet that would leave you to your thoughts, and that itself may be more dangerous than disjointed nightmares that make little sense except for bringing forth panic. Sleeping may bring fear but it is better than dwelling on the thoughts that crop up when alone.

Remembering that is difficult, however, when you throw the covers off you nearly six hours later as your throat aches in phantom pain. The room is small, always small with stained walls and lifeless atmosphere, but now it is stifling. You barely take the time to throw a sweater over your t-shirt (looking at the words has become too painful: she’s not yours, never will be, but looking at them you can almost pretend like she could be and that is dangerous) before bolting out the door. Only half paying attention to make sure the wood does not crumble beneath your hands, and you’re sure there are divots now. 

It wasn’t really your idea to go for a run (your body moving on the only instinct it had for months, one foot in front of another) but it helps. One of the first things you noticed when waking up from Malivore was the air. There, the air was stagnant, almost rancid, and no matter what you did you could not get warm (the kind of cold that was in your bones, in your soul). But here, as the sun spills across the city in a flush of orange, red, and blue, the air is crisp. The smell of the forest nearby, the smell of cars, and of concrete, it is alive in a way Malivore never was.

Each step on the pavement makes noise, the crunch of stone beneath your feet, the brush of rubber against the ground, and the sound of fabric moving. In Malivore, the only noise was your own breathing. Interspersed with the screams of Malivore, the monsters, and the occasional spell. It was like what you imagine a sensory deprivation room to be like, one of those where it’s absolutely silent. And every little noise, that is somehow too much and too little, reminds you of where you are. 

* * *

You didn’t really intend to go to the coffee shop, but it is where you end up. Still dark, even as the sun begins to creep over the horizon. When you make it there, Samuel is just beginning to toss the doors open- he lives above the shop, easier that way, he said- when he catches sight of you. Shaking, not from exertion but from fear and adrenaline, he sees you and meets your eyes. Sees how your eyes go in and out of focus, seeing things in the now but drifting into memories, he sees this and guides you upstairs.

If asked, you would not be able to remember the time from entering the shop to making it to Samuel’s house, but you come back with a warm cup of tea in your hands. Chamomile, from the smell. Samuel sits across from you, his movements thoughtless as he puts sugar in the coffee, but his eyes are analyzing and sharp as they rest on you. Embarrassment, warm and hot, rushes up the back of your neck and you look away from him. 

“What’s eatin’ you? I recognize the look.”

What look? The hollow eyed one? Where your eyes are _flat_ and _empty_ , as if all of Malivore can be seen in them (as you imagined they looked after your throat was torn out). Or the look of you drowning? Of everything being too _damn much!_ Of when you just want everything to _stop_. But it won’t. It never does. Yeah. Maybe this man, this man with scars on his knuckles and weight on his shoulders, recognizes it. 

Emma used the term once, PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. And you had _(“isn’t that for soldiers”_ ) laughed it off (but aren’t you a soldier? Fighting and killing as you’d been raised to do, sacrificing everything for others. Have you ever been anything but a soldier?). 

“Vietnam.” You look up at him, at the sound of his voice which is just slightly nasally, as he rolls back his right sleeve. “Napalm burned half my body and I still can’t feel parts of my arm.”

The war no one wanted, you wonder if he volunteered or was drafted, but it matters not right now. He continues to stir the sugar in his coffee and, now that you’re watching, you can see the slight trembling in his right arm. You wonder what he lost, what he saw. The stories don’t compare to reality. Like you, you had heard of Malivore and the utter horror of the darkness and how it can drive someone insane, but you did not understand until you were there. Even the glimpse the Necromancer gave you did not, could not, match the reality. 

This man went to war, and when he came back people spat on him. You came back and no one knew you. Your demons are different, but you understand. He looks up and tilts his head forward slightly, questioning,

“That scar, you want to talk about it?”

Can you? Your throat (red, warm blood pouring out, throat not where it should be, a voiceless scream) is there, it is intact, but the words won’t come. So you shake your head slightly. Samuel nods, not pressing, and the two of you sit in silence as the minutes tick by before,

“I opened the shop with my soulmate.” His words float through the air, low and musing. “We used to talk about it. I’d bake the goods while the air smelled of coffee, it was just a dream at first. Then she went to business school and I went to culinary school, it became a reality.”

He talks, not in a rhythmic way nor is it a voice made for storytelling but listening to the stories of him and his wife, who is in Indiana visiting family, getting to buy the shop and all the difficulties they faced. About how the one time he tried to teach his wife how to bake she caused an explosion with flour. Your fingers relax from where they were clutching at the cup of tea and you sip it. There’s a lull in the conversation, where Samuel pauses in case you want to speak. 

“Do the nightmares stop?”

Your voice is raspy, choked, as if the muscles are fighting against themselves as you force the words out. It’s a stupid question. You know full well they don’t (even now you wake up with a cry for your mother or father in your mouth) but you want some measure of reassurance. There’s sadness in his eyes, deep and painful, but his voice is steady.

“Not entirely. It gets better, but there’ll be nights, days, where it seems like everythin’ is falling apart. But those are just the bad days, you’ll have plenty of good to look forward to.”

But how? How can you look forward when all that’s left is your past? You drink the tea, the heat of it burning your throat for a moment, a moment in which you _feel_ , but then it is healed. It focuses you though, wipes away the slight panic (the anger, you saved your friends and died for them and this is what you get? Nightmares and pain. Mikaelson’s are villains, not heroes, and you can almost see why when being a good person is so damn hard.)

The clock on the wall chimes, a charming antique, and your shift has started. Nodding politely to Samuel, you set down the tea and move towards the door. His voice stops you,

“You’re not alone. Maya and I are here.”

A jerk of your head, meant to be a nod but your muscles are stiff and wound far too tight. But, for a split second, you feel slightly less alone (the hollow core that still leaves you _empty_ unwinds slightly).

* * *

Josie is fidgeting when she approaches you, looking apologetic and unsure, with MG and Raf trailing behind her like kicked puppies (not today, please, not when you’re still trying to separate memories from reality). You look over at Maya and signal you’re going on break, a small motion that she learned to read a while ago, and even if she looks concerned- sparing a suspicious glance for the three teenagers in front of you- she does not ask. 

They remain silent as you lead them through the coffee shop and out the back, following your lead. And you…you can’t. You slump against the wall and pinch the bridge of your nose. Breathing even feels like a task, like there is an elephant sitting on your chest, and you are no stranger to the anxiety that drapes itself like a cloak across your shoulders. Almost comforting in its familiarity, despite how painful it is. 

“Are you okay?”

Opening your eyes, you see Josie looking down with concern in her eyes, worry and apprehensiveness lacing her tone. It makes your heart ache, and instead of saying what you really want to (no, I’m not okay, I want you all to remember me, I want my friends and family back) you do what comes naturally, you poke.

"I’d be better if I didn’t spend the whole night freaking out about being stalked by creeperwolf and Twilight over there.” 

MG looks very offended at the comparison, opening his mouth to likely go into a rant about how _wrong_ the books were and how completely terrible they are (he is very passionate about how the books are as bad an example of romance as Romeo and Juliet). But Rafael nudges him slightly, shaking his head, and steps forward.

“We wanted to apologize.” He pauses, looking at Josie for a second, and then continues. “And…we want to offer you a place at our school.”

“No.”

The response is flat, immediate, and even Josie looks taken aback at the venom dripping from that one word. But you need to make it clear, there is no way that you’ll be going to the school. One month and a few weeks. That’s all you have (the closer you get the harder it will be to leave, and these are not your friends anymore). 

“Okay,” Josie’s voice is placating, and the worry does not abate as her gaze flicks- oh. The scar. But she doesn’t bring it up. “But we need to warn you-“ what? Wait, what’s happening? “-there have been some monsters coming around.”

No. Nonononono- you stopped them! You- you had to have stopped them. Malivore is gone (is he?) no, you saw hi- there was nothing but a pit- he is _gone_. Then why are the monsters coming, could they have- escaped. Oh. Malivore was a container. He didn’t kill the monsters, he kept them (in a cage of darkness and pain and misery and- _you are not there_ ) and now they’re free. But why come for Mystic Falls? What reason (distantly, you can hear someone- Josie?- talking to you but it seems thick as if through water) could they have for coming after your friends. You have to protect them, you have to fightrunhidekillsavesacrifice.

Hands, warm and on your shoulders. You flinch, but the pain never comes, and the voice that was coming through fog gets clearer. The hands, warm and soft and not of Malivore, are tight on your shoulders and it grounds you. But it does not remove the pain in your chest as your muscles fight every movement, constricting and choking, your breathing is rushed and light and there is _not enough oxygen_.

“Breathe with me.”

You know that voice (does it know you?) and even with the panic swarming your mind, curling around your lungs and _squeezing_ , you _trust_ and try to breathe. It’s slow and shaky and painful, your lungs contracting and spasming on their own. But you fight them, force them to respond and slowly (slow and slow and slow- not stopping, not again, no pain this time) your heart rate begins to calm. 

You’re still shaking slightly and there is an exhaustion that leaves your chest aching and your mind slow, as if there is nothing more you want to do than go to sleep, but you can’t. Because Josie is kneeling in front of you (and when did you fall to the ground) with concern and worry (for someone she thinks is a _stranger_ \- but aren’t you? The Hope she knew wasn’t a shaking mess). 

There’s the vague feeling that you should say something (should move, but you don’t want the hands to leave), and so you choke out through tense muscles,

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Remember you? But that is a cruel and useless wish that is better relegated to the darker corners of your mind. Instead, you shake your head in response. She stares at you, almost as if she is unwilling to move away (please, don’t) but she does. Her hands leave your shoulders and it takes another moment to centre yourself. 

What does she see, you wonder, as she looks at you, still shaking slightly with wild eyes and a scar from a wound that should have killed you (it did)? But it does not matter. What does matter, is that she knows something more is wrong with you. Perhaps you can play it off, chalk up the fear of monsters to being attacked by another supernatural, and you’ve come here to get away from it all (ironic, your lie is about running away when your truth is that you want to run but can’t). 

“I don’t have…good experiences with other supernaturals.” True, not the whole truth but still truer than some things you’ve said to her. “so, I panicked a bit when the three of you cornered me and the idea of more were coming. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Andrea.” Andrea, that’s not your name (you would kill, fight, and sacrifice to hear your real name spoken by anyone) and it hurts. But the pain is so common these days that it is nearly a constant ache in your chest. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.” And it’s then that you notice the boys are gone, your father would be so disappointed in your situational awareness. “Where did the two stalkers go?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about them.” She seems embarrassed and frustrated, an odd combination. “I told them to leave you alone but…yeah. I forced them away a couple minutes ago, they won’t be coming back.”

Oh. Well, that’s both good and bad. Good, because it’s less people to stare at you. Bad, because you are liable to break down and tell Josie everything if she asks the wrong (the right) question. Monsters. Focus on the monsters.

“The monsters, where are they coming from?”

“We don’t know. It was…well, it’s a long story.” Longer than she really knows. “I can tell you? But, I don’t really think a coffee shop’s alley is the safest place.”

“I’d rather not show you where I’m staying.” The hotel is dingy and small, but it is as much your space as the coffee shop. And if you show it to Josie then the rest are sure to know. “Do you have a place?”

“Hm, oh, yeah. I know where we can go.”

She turns, as if to lead you there and you can’t help the chuckle that slips out between your lips. So impatient, so headstrong. You like that about her. But you can’t just leave, your break has already been too long.

“Not now, Josie.” And the way your mouth curls around her name is traitorous, as if trying to savor the way it sounds and imprint it into your soul (she may not remember you but you have the memories of every moment, be it painful or beautiful) and it is far, far too fond. But Josie does not call you on it, does not do anything besides look at you with curiosity and a slight blush. “I have work, but after I get off shift I can meet you.”

“I can give you my number then.”

“Ah…” You don’t have a phone, and what an odd thing to feel embarrassed by? The fact that you have worked for everything you own (except for the few bottles of whiskey, you still feel guilty when you look at them but they stave off cravings) is almost a point of pride, you have worked and to see how it paid off is comforting- almost like how you feel after a good painting. But there is still something like…shame, loss, sadness when you look at the duffel bag with everything you own. “I don’t have a phone. Where would you like me to meet you.”

“Just near the edge of town, I can drive you to the meeting spot.”

With plans made, the two of you part ways. And the panic that curled around your lungs, the fear the clouded your mind in a haze, does not quite disappear as the knowledge that you _failed_ and they are not safe nearly chokes you (not much a a hero, are you? You’re not strong enough, but maybe now that you’ve died you can protect them better. There’s nothing to lose now.)

* * *

“So, Malivore- the evil mud pit- is gone but the monsters are still coming? Why?”

Josie shrugs, helplessly, and perhaps the odd note of relief in your voice is buried below the confusion. If heard, that could cause some difficult questions (you’re relieved Malivore is gone, there is no chance of you going back into that hell). It’s quiet in the forest, a small clearing that Josie drove halfway to (…isn’t she supposed to have an adult with her?) and then led you to. You lean against a tree, breathing in the scent of pine and dirt, the faint smell of rain on the wind that ruffles your hair. And in the silence of the forest, with Josie by your side, something in you seems to settle down. 

“They’re searching for someone.” Josies voice pulls you from the calm. Landon? Could they be searching for Landon? “But all they’ve said is a first name: Hope.”And your heart stops, caught in a vice grip of _terror_ but Josie continues, unaware. “They’re pretty dumb though, unlike the old monsters there isn’t much intelligence, so questioning them is useless. But the past few have been smarter! So maybe we’ll get some info out of them.”

Or maybe your classmates will be hunted, will be caught and killed as you were (but you would die before allowing that- even if it was a final death with no chance of coming back. You risked that before). 

“Do you know anyone by that name?”

“No, no one.”

She’s lying (reaching up towards her bare neck before pausing and fidgeting with her bracelet) and the furrow between her brow. It’s not a complete lie, but she’s holding something back. And all you want to do is shake her, ask her what she remembers (does anyone else? You miss Landon’s jokes, MG’s references, and even Lizzie’s snark). But she doesn’t look at you with anything resembling familiarity. She may know something (and what, what is it? Maybe something in Landon’s journal mentioned you, maybe she didn’t burn your files after all) but she does not know _you_. 

“We could use some help, with the monsters.”

“Subtle.” The dry look you shoot Josie does nothing to dislodge the smile on her face. “But like I said, I don’t really want to be a part of this whole thing.”

“You’re one of us, a witch, you don’t really have a choice.” Josie backpedals at the spark of warning in your gaze, “I mean, these monsters are searching for someone around here. How long until they stop coming to the school and start attacking the town?”

“…I could leave. May-“

“That’s not what I meant!” 

The look of bafflement must show on your face at the interruption, a frankly uncharacteristic one, but the way Josie looks away from you to stare into the forest to avoid her embarrassment is familiar. It wasn’t a serious suggestion, you would not leave when your classmates (can you even call them friends anymore? When neither of you truly know each other anymore, when you’ve missed their growth and the girl they knew has been replaced by this haunted soldier) are in danger. But you can’t outright say that, so,

“I think Samuel would cry if I up and left. Not to mention Maya would legitimately murder me if she was stuck with the morning shift. Nah, I’m not leaving, so there’s no need to worry.”

Now that you say it, you know it’s true (not that Samuel would cry, he would just give you a very disappointed look as Maya stabbed you) that there are people who would miss you. And they may not be close, but they have seen more of the new you than your old classmates have. 

“So, we’re stuck with you?” 

You bark a laugh, unexpected and loud, and the smile on Josie’s face is decidedly _mischievous_. The two of you had spoken, a handful of conversations, at the shop and you had never been gifted with her sometimes acerbic wit- something you had enjoyed seeing before Malivore. 

“Yeah, you’re stuck with me. ” You flash her a grin, moving from the rather grim topic into something lighter. “Mud monsters and impending doom aside, how has your summer been? That project you were working on, is it coming along?” 

And you’re honestly curious, the little snippets that she wrote on her (and by proxy, you) were never long and since you stopped looking at them (another reminder of a connection that does not truly exist) there is a lot you’ve missed. But maybe, if you are going to stick around until this whole thing is fixed, it wouldn’t hurt to try and build a new relationship (It’s harder, you think, to leave and push people away when you are looking them in the eye). 

“My dad had to push his trip back so I won’t be able to get away until right before school starts.” An irritated huff at that, but she waves the topic away. “But it’s been a good summer, kind of boring trapped in school interspersed with periods of activity with monsters. You?”

You? Well, Josie, you spent two months in Malivore, died, then _woke up_ , and got a job. Not too much fun, little dull if you’re being honest. Perhaps it would have been more interesting if you actually died, the Necromancer mentioned a Grim Reaper- would’ve been cool to meet him. 

“Nothing much, rolled into town a little while ago and got the job. Just been keeping my head low.” She’s curious, you can see that, and before she can ask any questions you push on. “I mean, the last town I was in saw a little too much, so I left.” There’s no need to expand, it’s a common enough story for supernaturals. “And I’d heard of this town through the grapevine, figured that it would be a good place to relax.” 

“Not much chance of that happening.”

“Maybe not, but then, I never really have been one for taking it easy.”

She laughs. Throwing her head back and as the sun dances across her face, shadows mingling as the sun sets, and the splash of colours sets her alight. Her grin is wide, the happiness is so different from what haunts your dreams ( _"please, just come back"_ ), and even if you knew she was pretty- beautiful- seeing her surrounded by nature and the only sound being the two of you for miles, you can admit, just to yourself, that she’s gorgeous in a way that steals the breath from you (and you’re okay with that, as long as she just keeps smiling at you. It is easy to hurt around them, but it is almost easier to feel happy as well). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Please leave a comment or critique! I thank everyone who has read so far (once again) and my lovely Beta Wisdom. Please stay safe during these troubled times everyone!


	5. Your name (It is in our hearts) is not in our memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: No real warnings for this chapter, but we do finally get to see a hint of the Mikaelson family!

I wrote your name in the sky,

but the wind blew it away.

I wrote your name in the sand,

but the waves washed it away.

I wrote your name in my heart,

and forever it will stay.

Jessica Blade

“How old are you?” 

It’s an abrupt question, and Andrea turns from staring out the window as she soaks in the fading heat, the days are finally beginning to grow shorter. She does that a lot, even under a sweater and scarf (hiding a scar that you don’t know how she lived through), it seems like she can never get warm. It seems almost subconscious, as she clings to the hot cup of coffee and her fingers wrap around it as if to leech the heat away. She looks at you and raises an eyebrow, a short move that is unfairly attractive as the sunlight drifts through the darkened shop (she closed up an hour ago, the two of you have just been talking since). 

“What brought that on?”

You shrug, a careless gesture that feels a tad forced,

“Just curious.”

“I’m seve-“ Andrea cuts off, looking confused for a second, as if she forgot her own age and then picks back up smoothly “I’m eighteen.”

“Huh, you’re not that much older than me.”

“What?” Andrea sounds vaguely confused. “How old did you think I was?”

“Like..twenty or something?” Why is Andrea looking at you like you offend- oh, that sounded bad the way you phrased it. “Wait, no, you just seem really…” you make a gesture at her, trying to find the words to explain the way her piercing gaze catalogues everything and how even when she looks at you (like you are all that matters, with all her attention hanging off of every word) she is still aware of everything happening around her. “experienced.”

“If this is your way of saying I look old, thanks.”

You flail, trying to dig yourself out of the hole you talked yourself into. Before, finally, you see the flicker of amusement in Andrea’s eyes and give her a look nearing a glare,

“You’re teasing me.” The laugh you get in response is confirmation. “I just meant, you carry yourself like you’ve seen a lot of stuff. Like Samuel!” 

The way both of them are always positioned to see the entire room, how sometimes Andrea’s gaze seems to flicker between here and somewhere else, the way Andrea shifts into something like a fighting stance (one you could swear you’ve seen before) when something too loud happens nearby. She moves like a soldier. But then, with a scar like hers is it any wonder? She stares at you, gaze shifting into something more calculating than the near laziness it was before (as close to it as she ever gets, you think) but you keep the smile on your face. Eventually, she returns it. Soft, and the way she tilts her head is _familiar_ , and it feels like she’s looking at you and seeing more than you know. 

It’s a heady feeling, and perhaps you are a little addicted. That explains why you keep coming back to talk with her, even if it distracts you from your work. You enjoy sitting and talking with her, even if she does not say as much as you. It’s nice to feel like the centre of her attention, and to talk to someone who is not from school. 

And then the guilt hits, here you are, sitting and flirting and chatting, when you are meant to be finding your soulmate. Hope Mikaelson. A name, and some writings ( _my name is Hope Mikaelson, I’m sorry your mom wasn’t there today, I’m sorry I’ve never written back_ and then, scrawled on a piece of paper that you don’t remember writing ‘ _save Hope Mikaelson_ ’) in the book Penelope gave you. But it is quite the name, Mikaelson, and you know that it is not a coincidence. Your father…your father would be displeased but ultimately supportive, maybe less so if you were to reveal that you think she was the one who actually destroyed Malivore. He’s been clinging to his job by a thread, with Dorian and Emma taking over more of his duties as part of the probation the honor council agreed on. Any more stress and you’re half sure he’ll have a heart attack. 

Andrea is staring again, she does that occasionally (looks at you and sometimes, there is an emotion in her eyes that takes your breath away and, a small traitorous part of you, almost wishes she would never stop) but calling attention to it seems to make her embarrassed. Eighteen years old, bite mark from something on her neck (dog?…werewolf?), acts like some kind of warrior, she likes the smell of coffee but often drinks tea, drawing is kinda her thing, and…you don’t know anything about where she came from. A sudden frown cross your face, followed by the desire to know about this girl that can reverse a spell no one else could, that listens to you, the desire to know more about her than anyone. 

“I don’t know much about you.”

“That a question?”

“Be serious!” Andrea smirks as you roll your eyes, but you refuse to be dissuaded. “Tell me about yourself, I’ve told you a lot.”

Andrea pauses, her face placid and calm, yet you get the feeling that there is something going on just below the surface (and it feels like you should know, like you should be able to read her better). Maybe you pushed her too far, the worry begins to surface as Andrea remains silent, but then she sighs, a heavy sound that hangs in the air, before she speaks softly,

“I like to dance.” She looks almost…shy “My aunt taunt me, she i- was great…practically raised me for a while.” There’s a pause, as if she is searching for things to say. “I don’t have a favourite colour but I’m not a huge fan of black. Uh…I like baking.”

It’s almost…weird to hear how normal Andrea is. Because you know her, know the way she flicks her eyes off to the side before she says something that could be risky, the way her tone may be flat and bored but a smile tugs at her lips and creases her eyes. You may not know her past, even though you want to, but you know her _now_ and that seems more important. Yet she seems sad, and sometimes the shadows in her eyes are familiar (the way you look after a nightmare, after everything with your- with Josette). 

“Why did you come here?”

You wonder if she’ll tell the truth, something other than the lie she told in the forest of looking for a place to relax (she looks so tired, and it only seems to be getting worse). But then she flicks her eyes away from you and out the window, and you know whatever comes out of her mouth will be a lie.

“I’ve been going from small town to small town, this was on the way.”

Lie, lie, lie. And it hurts, because you know that there is still a level of distance she is keeping. It breaks, sometimes, when she gets a little too close and brushes against you, the way her foot will curl around your leg, or even how her hand moves towards yours. It isn’t…it is not part of the flirting that seems to slip out of her mouth occasionally (and she looks almost taken aback when you flirt with her too, it’s…adorable), no it is more like she is seeking you out to reassure herself that you are here. She does the same thing with Maya, when they work together. 

You bite back a sigh, turning back to your notebook. New Orleans. Just a couple more weeks and you’ll have information on your soulmate. Even Lizzie doesn’t know what you're planning, although she knows about your soulmate- that was too difficult of a secret to keep from her. She drops it (whenever she feels something like pain echoing across the twin bond) and turns to talking about her hot Swedish guy. You wonder if Andrea would know anything about it, she helped Rafael. But that seems a little too much to talk about after barely half a month of knowing each other, even if it feels like you’ve known each other for longer.

“I’m going to have to go home soon.” Andrea looks at you, an apology in her eyes. “I have a couple things I need to do tonight.”

“Okay…see you tomorrow?”

She gives you a soft smile, and that makes it easier to accept that she’s keeping secrets because there is obviously a reason (one that seems to hurt her, whenever she does not think you are looking and she glances at Landon or Rafael as they tag along) and it must be a good one. Maybe she’ll tell you them someday. 

* * *

She’s powerful. That’s the first thing you learned about her, as she turned you back and then knocked you out (and the poison ivy you landed in was far from kind). And even now you can see it, in the subtle grace she has whenever she moves, in the way you can faintly smell _ozoneashdirt_ whenever her eyes flash with frustration or anger. You smelled it in the alley when MG grabbed her, and your eyes caught the way her hands twitched as if to push MG away- or worse. There is no doubt that she could have done it. Even without her power, you think, even if she was human, she would still be imposing just from the way she carries herself. 

She’s wounded. Maybe not physically, even if she once was (and the scar on her neck belongs to something with jaws much larger and vicious than a wolf), but mentally. Oh, she hides it well. If you were not looking for it after the episode in the alley (where the calm and confident girl crumbled into fear and desperation) maybe you wouldn’t have noticed it. But the thing is, you know the look of someone on edge, you’ve had it enough times when with a bad family. Learning how to constantly be hyperaware, the fear of saying something wrong, and even the flinch before a touch as if expecting pain- you have seen all these things in her.

She fits in. With Landon, Josie, MG, Kaleb and you. It’s like a piece was missing, a sarcastic slightly brusque but also oddly sweet piece. Movie nights have become better (better than they were when it was just you and Landon, and you could feel yourself slipping away into something far more bestial), and it’s…nice. 

The forest is your home, as much as you like the school it can feel stifling at times, and there is a level of ease that can not be understated. Surrounded by your friends, and you count Andrea among them, it is peaceful and _right_. But there is something wrong. Josie knows it, from the worried glances she’ll toss at Andrea when the girl is not looking. Even in the forest, where she looks more relaxed than anywhere- except maybe the coffee shop, but she’s beginning to look tense there as well- there is a…a nervousness, anticipation, that thrums just below her skin. Perhaps that’s why Josie asked all of you to avoid talking about any monster of the week, to lessen any stress that is on Andrea, but it does not seem to be working. 

“Hey, Raf.” You look up, the paper in your lap shuffling slightly at the movement. There stands the centre of your thoughts, a tired smile gracing the corners of her mouth. “How’s it going?”

“Slowly.” Your homework, something for maths that seems more than a little pointless. They teach you maths, but not how to live a normal life. It’s like they forget that some students will be leaving. How are you supposed to deal with your monthly issue (god that sounds like you have PMS) if you move to a city? “You’ve done this stuff, right?”

“What is it?” She leans over to see it, humming slightly as her eyes roam over the paper. “Yeah, yeah. Would you like some help?”

“That would be great.”

She explains it easily, making connections that you hadn’t before, and…she’s a born teacher. Patient and encouraging without being condescending. Maybe that’s what she wants to be, a teacher, she’s graduated already- she’s eighteen, right? It’s odd, to imagine her in a classroom with her hair pushed forward over her shoulder with a stern look on her face as she lectures. But it is not a bad image. 

“What’re you planning on for college?”

“College?” Andrea sounds startled, as if baffled by the very idea. Then she laughs, loud and (desperate) tinged with bitterness. “Yeah…not really in my future.”

And she goes back to the maths. But you want to _know_. What about her life has made it so the very idea of college is something that is seen with near derision (and you have felt the same way at times, when it was harder when you were younger, after Cassie when everything just…seemed hopeless- still does at times). 

You’re glad she was around, really, to change you back but sometimes…Sometimes it all feels like too much. All the noises and people and you just want to run. Landon, you love him, but he pushes you to talk- too much at times. It’s nice though, being able to joke and laugh and talk with your friends again (even if there is still something not _you_ that creeps in the corner of your head). Yet Andrea does not push when you fall silent mid sentence, she just lets the silence hang there- occasionally filling it with absent comments with no expectation of answers- and it feels like peace. Like she understands (but how?). 

“You okay?” Her voice pulls you from your thoughts, soft and worried. “Don’t think too hard, I can see the steam.”

…and it’s gone. A moment of kindness, then hidden by the prickly armor that you’re not even sure she realizes is on her. 

“Laugh it up, I’m still liable to get MG to tie you up to spill your secrets.”

“Kinky, but not my thing.”

The rebuttal is so fast that it tears a laugh from you. She’s not quite grinning, it is more of a sly smile that crinkles her eyes. And you feel relaxed, with a friend next to you and the forest around you. It feels _right_ (and for the first time, that little tinge of regret you’ve had since being turned back is much quieter than before). 

* * *

The girl in your pictures is a stranger. You thought perhaps it was one of Marcel’s, for it could not have been yours, but then you began to look closer and realized something. She has Niklaus’s smile (and it almost hurts to see, to realize why the girl looked so familiar). She is your _niece_ , and yet you have no memory of her. Even when you can see yourself standing next to her, an arm wrapped around her shoulders and something like _pride_ in your eyes, you do not remember her. You want to know, want to know the girl that grinned at the camera with paint covering her, want to know the girl that you (apparently) held in your arms. But no one knows her. Not even Marcel, he is just as confused and worried and sometimes you catch him staring at the pictures with mounting frustration as the search for the girl drags onward.

At first, you try conventional means. Phonebooks, google, and other methods (the modern world scares you sometimes, and you know that eventually supernaturals will become known with how the humans have grown) before turning to magic. Freya is near shocked when you ask her for help, not because it is a truly rare event but due to the fact she is experiencing the same thing. And you hit a dead end. Because magic does not work, there is no trace of the girl. Freya says that she is not dead, there would be a..a trace if that had occurred, but it is as if she was wiped from existence and then something blanketed her in anti-magic. 

Irritation is no stranger to you, it is familiar and comes hand in hand with your family (although, this time it is not caused by being around them, it is by being unable to find one of them). Yet stronger still is your curiosity, something Niklaus used to poke fun at you about- about your curiosity and naivety- (and you have been thinking about him more often, about how much you miss his sharp jabs and the softer, more protective, moments) to find this girl. A girl who, in the first dozen pictures is grinning and happy and, if not free of burden, at least seeming content. But it turns darker in the later pictures, she still smiles, but you have more pictures of her brooding over a painting in a (near frighteningly) similar manner to Niklaus. 

Memories are precious to you, your family ( _alwaysandforever_ ) may be…broken, but you have your memories and pictures to remember them by. To know that some have been ripped away, that there are blanks in your memories that you can not even pinpoint, it is disquieting. More so when you see the distress you feel mirrored in Freya, Keelin, Kol, Marcel, and Davina. In the frantic energy with which everyone searches, there is always the nagging feeling of something being deeply and utterly _wrong_ (not that the girl is gone, if there were no records you do not think that there even would have been the realization that a Mikaelson- one of _yours_ \- is missing, but that there has been no steps forward in finding her). It drives you to read and reread everything that could help find her, anything that could give a hint as to where she is. But there is _nothing_.

“Come to bed, love.”

Marcel is leaning in the doorway, looking down at you, and what a sight you must be, mussed hair and pictures haphazardly organized around you alongside whatever scraps of writing you gleamed from books on memory magic, so there is no surprise in seeing his face wrinkled with concern. A glance towards the pictures, for a moment you consider waving him off, but eventually you stand.

“I just…We need to find her.”

Heavy with stress and worry, your voice sounds nigh unrecognizable, and it hurts. There is a weight on your shoulders and a vice around your heart that has not lessened since Freya told you that it was not your imagination, that a family member is missing. And while you may not be able to find the exact gaps in your memory, there are certain things you can infer. Like how Niklaus died, and while you know it was from the Hollow there is still a _reason_ behind it that is missing. Marcel understands, this missing girl is his sister, and yet he is better at managing the desperate fervor to find her that has wormed its way below everyone’s skin. 

“I know, Bekah, but there is no use in going over things we have seen a dozen times. Freya is speaking to some of her contacts, someone will know a way to find a person that we have either overlooked or don’t know.” He moves over to you, tucking your head below his chin as he hugs you, and you nearly sag into the embrace. “We just need to be patient.”

Laughter, perhaps a tad hysterical bubbles out of your chest. 

“And when have you known me to be patient?”

“Well…you’re never too old to learn new things.”

He smiles into your hair, even as you thump him on the side. But it is true. There is nothing you can do right now (and that…hurts, it feels like all your power is being taken away, and it is _awful_ ) but wait for Freya to contact you. Marcel’s own contacts have been alerted to keep an eye out for information- not knowing the truth, of course- and for now that will have to do. 

“You’re right. Still an ass though.”

“Ah, but one you love.”

“Reluctantly.”

You grin at him, and he smiles back. Even with everything going on, even with the pain of loosing both your brothers (and sometimes you still cry, you’ll see something that will remind you of them or you’ll go to talk to them, and it will hit you all over again) you still feel happy. Marcel is great, you love him. And even if this does not end the way you hope it does, he will always be by your side. 

* * *

“We should talk.”

Andrea looks up at your voice, the drink in her hands shaking slightly as she hands it over. Maya is at the register, and you’re careful to pitch your voice low to avoid her hearing. Perhaps you are not as attentive as your friends, perhaps you are not the best at school work, but with people? You know people. And every single alarm bell is going off around Andrea. Her shoulders have been tense since you walked in, and even if she has forced them down into some semblance of relaxation Always tense, bet she could use a chiropractor. 

“I’ll be outside in a minute.”

Her voice is terse, but there is a slight shake of worry that she can’t hide. It is as if she is expecting you to say that someone died…and you haven’t, not in, like, a month or so. Josie has been pretty adamant about not killing yourself, and it’s pretty hard to deny her when she just…stares at you. A part of you misses it, a wry smile stretches across your lips as you push open the coffee shop door, dying, you mean. The silence, how for a short time everything is just…peace and calm and (you long for it, it is like a hug, but you know full well just how unhealthy it is- doesn’t stop your feelings though) silence. 

The scratch of your pen against the notebook (bound leather and soft, a gift from Raf) is familiar. It’s colder outside today, but the sun beating down on you provides a nice warmth. A hand on your shoulder jolts you away from your writing, and Andrea stands above you with something like nostalgia on her face. 

“Come on, let’s walk.”

It’s silent for a time. Merely strolling down the streets of Mystic Falls, ignoring the tension that threatens to choke awkward rambles from you. You try not to spend much time around town, it isn’t like you had many(re: any- except Raf, but he’s your brother, he doesn’t count) friends in it but now that you’re going to the Salvatore School it seems that even kids who bullied you are trying to cozy up. But you don’t mind it right now.

Andrea has something about her, maybe it’s the way she instinctively covers someone (the same way you once did for a fellow foster kid, how you took the punches for her, and made sure that they would have to go through you) or how she _listens_ to a person, but for you, it’s the way she smiles and laughs. The freedom in it (even if there are hints of darker things) and how she pushes herself into everything. In the way she will go out of her way to help people (literally found her helping an old woman across the road with groceries….honestly, you’re waiting for her to pull a cat out of a tree- no matter the explanation that the woman was her boss’ wife). Yet there are still things that need to be addressed, like,

“Your name isn’t Andrea.” She stops, gaping at you slightly, but beyond sparing a glance for her you don’t bother pausing, letting her catch up before you continue. “You’re too slow to respond to it, and there’s…something in your eyes whenever someone calls you by it. Not to mention, it’s a lie and, uh, I’m pretty good at finding lies. Which, is slightly harder with you because I _constantly_ have the feeling you’re lying, and that’s…concerning. Mind explaining?”

“…If I said: no. Would you leave it at that?” You stare at her flatly, and the slight smirk on her lips fades. “There..I…ugh.” She starts and stops multiple times, before huffing in disgust at her own lack of eloquence. “I can’t tell you. But yeah, Andrea isn’t my name- _no_ I am not telling you my name- and most of the things about my past are lies.” She takes a breath, looking you square in the eye with a set to her jaw that seems near painful, as she says (pleads for you to believe). “Trust this, though, there is no harm that will come to any of you because of my lies.”

And you believe that. No sense of her lying comes to you (could it be a phoenix ability? that…would be _really_ cool) and she seems truthful? So…liar, yeah, but she’s also becoming a good friend, and it isn’t like you haven’t known some sketchy people- Andrea doesn’t quite seem to be one of those types. 

“Okay, cool…I mean. I feel like you mean that, but I’m still gonna keep an eyes on you.”

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Nooow the atmosphere seems tense. Which, understandable considering that you kind forced some truth out of her. So, an almost devious smile crosses your lips and Andrea looks wary, onto something far less tense. 

“Sooo…what’s up with you and Josie?”

“I-wait, what? How did you- where did you even come up with that topic?”

“Dude.” Frankly, the worst thing is that she actually seems to believe she’s being subtle. “You look at her like Raf looks at a stack of ribs. Awe and no small amount of desire.” 

“I think you’re just seeing things.”

“And I wish I wasn’t! You two need to get a room, save the rest of us from the mushy heart eyes.”

“Landon.” Uh oh. Maybe this topic was less safe, because you are half sure her eyes flash in anger (and…yellow?) and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. “There is _nothing_ going on.”

“Okay, okay.” 

…

…

“But seriously, when are you going to ask her out? It’s disgusting to see you two moon over each other.”

“ _Oh my-_! Landon, I swear to god, I will _murder_ you. Drop. It.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Ah Landon, don't poke the Tribrid, she bites. Thank you for reading! Please leave a critique or comment below.  
>  (In case it was unclear, the order is: Josie, Rafael, Rebekah, and Landon)


	6. Tuesday's and Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Sorry for the late chapter, had a prepared one ready to go and was like...nah. So I wrote this one. Wisdom has not beta'd it so all mistakes are my own

Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;  
Warm southern wind, blow softly here;  
Green sod above, lie light, lie light;  
Good night, dear heart, good night, good night. 

Mark Twain

The ink won’t wash off. You felt it spread across your hand, in itchy blotches, and even knowing that despite how hard you scrub it will not come off, that does not stop you rubbing your skin near raw. A heavy sigh, and even as you know this will cause issues when Maya sees it, you feel a fondness for Josie begin to well up. With how often she bites her pen in frustration you should only be glad there aren’t ink stains across your lips. The water is hot, near scalding for a normal person, and it does nothing. A futile effort, but one you had to make all the same. Work does not wait though, and if you spend much longer in the bathroom than Maya will start getting overwhelmed by customers. 

When you return, there is a worry on your shoulders that is more than the gradually creeping feeling of something being wrong (of something tugging you in a direction) but it fades as Maya does nothing but raise an eyebrow at the stains on your hand. Maybe you’ve gotten away with it. The day passes quickly, in a haze of customers and students that have started returning from their break. Samuel and Natalie- his wife- come through a few times, carrying platters of goods for restocking. You met the woman early one morning, when she had just returned from her trip, and apparently Samuel had told her about you (probably more than you’re really comfortable with, but you can ignore it) as she greeted you with a grin. She’s very…not quite snarky, but funny in a subtle way that makes you burst out laughing hours later when you finally realize what she meant. 

A hand on your shoulder. Despite your best efforts your eyes flash for a moment at the sudden rush of adrenaline and fear that roars below the surface of your skin at the unexpected touch. Maya. Her gaze is slightly inquisitive, as if asking if you really thought she was going to let you run off after work without a chat. Damn. She jerks her head over towards the back, to the storage room where you sneak off sometimes for a breather. 

It’s a short walk into the room, but it feels longer than it should. As if you are going to judgement (dramatic. But…she’s been asking questions that you can only lie about, and she’s starting to catch on). She turns on you as soon as the door closes and the distinct, unpleasant, feeling of being cornered makes the hair on your neck rise alongside the beast in the back of your head. Maya stares at you, tilting her head as if trying to figure out the best way to approach this situation,

“My best guess right now is former Mafia Princess, am I right?” 

And apparently she settled on bluntness. For a few seconds, you blink at her, before the words fully register and you start laughing. Well…she is off the mark, but if you look at it from a certain angle it could be true. After all, your father did rule New Orleans for a while and your family has quite a bit of leverage in the stock market from being around for so long. 

“Uh…not Mafia. What brought this on?”

She rolls her eyes, shooting you a look asking if you truly believe her to be an idiot, which, okay perhaps there are a few odd things about you, but _Mafia?_

“You show up one day, live in a hotel, never given a last name, and have a mysterious past that has left you out of touch with the normal world. Hence, sheltered Mafia Princess.”

Huh. Okay, when put like that it really does sound like it could be true. For someone who doesn’t know about the supernatural, it’s probably as close as she is going to get to the truth. 

“You’re…close.” She looks oddly proud about that, like she’s just won money (did she make a bet with her brother about you? that…that is actually not surprising) “But not entirely correct.”

“Okay, cool.”

Wait, what? She drags you into the storage room to interrogate you about your life, and when you tell her she’s only partially correct, she doesn’t press?

“That’s…it?”

“What did ya want me to do? Badger you for details you won’t give?” She rolls her eyes at the near stunned expression you know is on your face. “C’mon, I just wanted to know how close I was. If you want to tell me then that’s your decision. Plus, what I don’t know I don’t need to lie to my mom about.”

Practical. You like that about her (and it is…refreshing, to know that at least one person isn’t trying to pry into your past- Josie is less then subtle with her questioning, but she tries). However, you’re not quite fond of what comes out of her mouth next.

“Want to explain the whole situation with that ink mark you got while making coffee and, oddly, not handling ink?”

Back to the questions. Yet with her earlier resolution you know that if you refused to answer she wouldn’t press. As she stares at you though, with gentle eyes and ruffled clothes from where her apron sat, you find that you don’t want to lie (you are so tired of lying). 

“It’s from my soulmate.” 

It kind of hurts to see Maya so taken aback at the fact you give a straight answer. Then her brows furrow as she thinks, looking at you deeply, opening her mouth multiple times as if wanting to say something but pausing as another thought grabs her attention. 

“It’s that girl who keeps coming in, Josie. Isn’t it.” It’s your turn to be taken aback. Maya is quick, you knew that, but to see her extrapolate that so quickly is…disquieting (was Landon right, are you that easy to read?). “You look at her like there’s something you know she doesn’t.” It’s a casual answer, one she waves off, but it confirms that Landon was right. You are far too easy to read, that needs to change. “Why haven’t you told her?”

“She’s happy. Knowing this? She wouldn’t be.”

Not for the reasons Maya will jump too, but it is the truth. Josie is happy, she doesn’t have the stress of you poking at her or getting her into danger. The monsters haven’t shown up since last she told you, so they may have given up (it’s a lie, but one you desperately want to believe). You…well, you are not quite happy but you are content (or at least that is a lie you can make yourself believe). Telling Josie this would mean telling her everything, and that would be beyond cruel. You would tell her of knowing her, of a relationship you built that she does not remember, and she would be unable to know if you are telling the truth. Even if she believes you, it would be unfair of her to act like you are closer than you are, it is unfair now for you to build a relationship and already be three steps ahead of her in it. Perhaps-

“Bullshit.” Maya’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. She stands there, arms crossed and with a storm cloud shadowing her face. “You don’t get to make that choice.”

“And why not?”

Your voice is calm, even and unbothered, yet there is a hint of warning that lies beneath it. It is a warning for Maya to tread lightly, that she does not know of that which she scorns. But she continues undeterred.

“Because it’s her right to know. This is as much her decision as it is yours.”

“But is it? There are still things you do not know, Maya.” You step forward, and even if you are shorter than her you still seem to tower over her. Not in a threatening manner, but it is almost imploring her to understand (that you can be selfish in this, that you are allowed to be scared) the point you are making. “Josie is happy right now, she is _safe_. The same can not be said once she knows the truth. Once that is spoken, it can not be taken back.” 

Unless an evil mud pit makes it unspoken by stealing the memory away. She looks at you, the anger fading slightly as she stares at you, seeing the slight fear that comes at the thought of Josie not being safe. Maya does not approach calm, not quite, but there is a comprehension. 

“You’re afraid.” You nod sharply, a jerky motion that belies your reluctance to answer. “I don’t think you need to be, she looks at you the same way you look at her.”

“Like she knows something?”

That’s even more worrying, what could Josie kn-

“No, like she adores you.”

oh. Your immediate instinct is to deny, and so is your second and third. But you begin to mull it over. Maybe…maybe Maya is telling the truth- as she sees it- but would that even change a thing? It is not a matter of Josie liking you, it is of the relationship being unequal (all of your friendships with your..old friends- god that’s weird to think- are uneven right now and it makes you uncomfortable) and the secrets you have been keeping. Because they are not small secrets, and Josie would not forgive you if she found out. You’ve seen her anger, and you would rather _not_ get set on fire. 

“Doesn’t matter. There are bigger secrets I’m keeping other than just being her soulmate.”

“‘just being-‘ girl, what the hell are you thinking.” She holds up a hand before you can even think to respond. “Don’t answer. Just…whatever your secrets are, they can’t be too bad. I know you, you’re a good person.” An outright laugh escapes you at that. With all the lying you’ve done, all the secrets, all the pain you caused before Malivore, you are going straight to hell (at least you like the heat now). Maya hits your arm, hard enough a human would flinch, with a scowl and- your eyes flash. You can’t stop it, the hit, sudden movement, it made you, your hands begin to shake. “Um…Andrea? What was that.”

Maya looks…scared. There is no putting the flash off as a trick of the light, not when you can feel fangs poking at your bottom lip as you wrest back control and focus on your own beating heart instead of the human in front of you. And you can’t, the enclosed space, tight and filled with the smell of a human, the sound of her heartbeat, you can’t. So you push past Maya, open the door, and run.

* * *

There’s a knock on the door, and you know who it is before their hand even touches the door. Heightened senses are awful at times. You sit in the corner of the room, the only light coming from the bathroom- even that hurts your eyes but you can not sit in the darkness, even if you wish to just to ease the headache. The knock sounds like a gunshot to you, echoing around your head and thudding against your skull painfully. Maya. The scent reaches you even through the door, the same smell of coffee that clings to you is on her but there is also a hint of some fruity perfume she wears. It’s all too strong right now. Too much. 

Moments like these have begun to lessen, but they come back with a vengeance occasionally. You think it is due to the complete lack of…anything, in the void that sometimes it all just gets to be too much for your senses, for you to process. Maya’s voice echoes through the room, as if she is screaming, but logically you know she is barely raising her voice.

“I know you’re in there. It’s the only place you would go.” She sighs, a sound that grates against your ears like nails on a chalkboard. “Let me in. Please?”

Her voice turns pleading on the last word, likely more than she meant it to be, but it tugs at you. And your body begins to move- slowly and painfully- until the door is open. And you stumble back from the light, closing your eyes, and then slamming the door behind Maya. 

It takes a few moments for you to drag yourself into some semblance of calm (a facade, a mask of it.) and turn to Maya, who sits on the bed. Nervous, even if she does not show it in her face it shows in her stiffness. In how she prevents herself from fidgeting or moving too fast. As if she is afraid to startle you. 

“So. Explanation time?” Her voice rises slightly towards the end. “Because I just saw my friend grow _fangs_ and _golden-black eyes_! I’m kinda freaking out.”

Your hands twist, and a deep breath- focusing on the heartbeat thudding in your chest at a too fast pace- you look up at her. Looking her square in the eye, you _speak_.

“I left the coffee shop a little upset, you decided to come check on me. You did not see my eyes change or fangs grow- forget it.”

Compelling. It’s easy, easier than you really think it should be. Vampires are taught to not abuse it, taught how it is infallible and wrong, at school. It’s an easily abused ability, and one you have been avoiding using. It says a lot that the first time you are using it is on a friend, but you know Alaric would make you do it if you were still at school. Humans can’t know about the supernatural, it’s dangerous. It isn’t a life you would wish for Maya. So, this is the only resort. 

Her eyes fog over for a second before focusing once again, a gentle smile crossing her lips. One that has no doubt been influenced by the compulsion she now sees as fact. 

“How are you? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine.” You smile at her (it’s not, this is why it is easier to be alone). “I was actually going to get some work done though, and I know you have home work you’ve been putting off.” 

She rolls her eyes, grimacing slightly at the reminder of the work she’s been avoiding, but takes the hint. After a few more moments of conversation, she leaves. And you are back in the room, alone. As it should be, you think.

Everything seems to be going wrong. It seems everyone knows you are lying, you had to compel Maya, and lately it feels like the wolf in you has been prowling far too close to the surface, growing at you to do something but you don’t know what it’s asking for. Josie is starting to notice your oddities, along with other people. Even if it is minor things, they will begin to add up eventually, they already are starting to. For a moment, when Maya looked at you as if she was prepared for answers, even as she was nervous and fearful of you, the resolve you had been clinging to weakened. That can’t happen. You are one bad day away from snapping. Be it violently or by telling everyone just what happened to you. Neither can happen. 

The only solution you can see is to get some distance, some time to yourself (or to just leave, but there is still the threat of monsters coming so that is impossible). Not for the first time, and surely not for the last, you wish that your mother was around to offer advice. For her to take you in her arms and tell you everything will be alright, because even when it was a lie it was a comforting one. You’d even take some of your father’s advice right about now- and you’ll be the first to admit, even loving the man with your whole heart, that he was not the best with other people. Especially when it came to the emotional stuff. But he tried (and you are trying, but it does not seem to be enough, and you can see why your father near drove himself mad with all the things he felt too strongly yet could not express) and you love him for it. 

Avoidance is…immature and will not work for long, but you need it to figure stuff out. Your friends will begin to catch on eventually, and start bothering you out of concern, but hopefully by then you will find some answers as to what to do (or will be gone by then). Your stomach begins to itch, a sure tell of the time as any clock, but you ignore it. As you have for a while, and leave the hotel room- blanching slightly at the still too bright day. Feeding should prevent you from loosing control like that again, hopefully, and a run in the forest should clear your head even if it is not as a wolf (and a part of you _aches_ with the desire to shift but you can’t. Not yet) and serve as a way to centre yourself.

Your stomach burns the entire time on your way to the woods, and it takes all you have to not look at the words. Somehow, in deciding that you will be limiting all contact with your friends, there is now a pressing desire to grab onto the one method of interaction you could have with Josie. Soulmates. Even feeling the words scratch into your skin, even having years to adjust to this knowledge, it is odd to think of Josie like that. Because you spent so long trying to separate her from the idea, trying to make it easier when you would poke and be rude. A part of you still marvels at the idea that Josie is your soulmate, that you have someone so great, someone so good, and another part despairs because you saw you father and his reaction to soulmates (You wonder if he would laugh or cry at you having one of Caroline’s daughters for a soulmate- Fate is a bitch, but has an ironic sense of humor). Yet Josie has you for a soulmate (and god, you can only imagine the disappointment that ran through her thoughts in the last few seconds she remembered you) and you are the opposite of her.

It is not a happy laugh that echoes through the forest, scaring off a few birds, it is low and rough and bitter. It tapers into a snarl. And the rage that races through your veins, it is poisonous, yet you revel in it. Something other than the sadness and pain. Indulging in these emotions, ones Alaric cautioned you away from as he looked at you and saw your father, is dangerous. It feels like walking the edge of a blade. Exhilarating. But anger needs an outlet, it bubbles beneath your skin and wants out, it is not a patient thing. So you turn your claws (when did you shift?) On the nearest tree and _tear._

Ripping and pulling, bark falls apart beneath your hands with barely any effort. You move on to the next. The next. And the next. A few times, you catch an animal and drink (sating the hunger that had been burning in your throat since work). 

When the haze finally ebbs, you are covered in blood, dirt, and bark. Yet you feel centered (and for a disturbing moment, you relate back to the Hollow where violence calmed the violence, but this was just some relief). It is still there, the tension that has been growing, but it is less for the moment. You slump against the stump of one of the half destroyed trees, grimacing slightly at the body of a deer nearby. Even if you need the blood, there is still some guilt that comes with killing the animals (they’re so cute. You always look away before biting). 

The sun has set and it is beginning to get cold (the cold makes your scar ache and brings back the chill of Malivore) and so your time in the forest is over for now. But…you stand in the middle of your self-made clearing, and breathe. Breathe in the smell of dirt, grass, leaves, and wood. Allow it to mingle with the ever present smell of coffee on you (no scent in Malivore except for blood, and you like knowing that you have one now). So you breathe, and find peace in the moon and stars shining down on you. 

* * *

Samuel seems both concerned and relieved when you ask for fewer shifts in the morning and more towards the end of the day, when it is less likely any of your friends will come by and Maya does not work, but he does nothing except nod and accept your request. Still, what was intended to be a quick meeting turned into Natalie inviting you over for dinner and spending a couple hours talking and laughing. It was nice, and sort of odd to see Samuel cracking jokes, and it left you feeling lighter than you have in a while. When you could sit at the table, reveling in the conversation and feeling of people around you without the need or expectation to add things crowding in, and eat with people who have some semblance of understanding (Natalie walks louder than a normal person, a trait she has learned over time you think so that Samuel is never alarmed by her being behind him, and it helps you as well in that you do not have to stretch your senses to be aware of where everyone is constantly). 

Yet there is still some pain, when you can hear your friends walk by and make sure that you are out of their line of sight. Taking breaks where they can’t find you. Doing your best to make yourself scare. It is harder than you thought it would be, and you anticipated it being difficult already. Where you once took comfort in being alone, wore it like a shroud and shield that kept the pain and loneliness at bay by pretending it was your own choice (on some level it was), it is now a sharp and displeasurable feeling. One that leaves you feeling oddly drained at the end of the day whenever you end up back in the hotel room- occasionally ignoring the knocks on the door from Maya. Compelling her has left you with no small amount of guilt, even if it was necessary. Just one more secret to keep.

It comes to a head, as all things must eventually, on a Tuesday. Everyone hated Mondays they treat it as the devil, but Tuesdays are the real evil. They are not the middle of the week, near the end, they are not the beginning where you still have some energy left over from the weekend, Tuesdays are where you are dull and tired and stuck in a routine. So of course things go wrong on a Tuesday. 

The sun has set, you have just finished locking up the doors, and the smell of autumn- of leaves and crisp wind- is mingling with the stronger scent of coffee. You’re so focused on it, with a small smile drifting over your lips in simple contentment, that you don’t hear her approach. But she is there when you turn around. The stars glittering, a gentle a soft light that is at odds with the scowl on Josie’s face. People sometimes say they find those they like cute when angry. You don’t get it. Mostly, you feel like crap and, well, a tad worried about what she’ll do to you. Earning Josie’s anger is not a good or pleasant thing. Yet you have earned it, and so you’ll take your lumps with dignity. 

“You’ve been avoiding us.” She pauses, as if expecting you to interject, to deny, but you have been avoiding them. “Why? What’s going on?”

Not for the first time, you find yourself without an answer. All this time you spent thinking and searching, for a reason to stay, a reason beyond protecting your friends from monsters that haven’t been coming and just wanting to be around them. There are none. Just your own selfishness. Josie seems upset by your silence, but it is the only truth you can give to her, not to speak at all, and in your silence there is the knowledge of secrets. 

“Andrea, seriously, you don’t need to…to push us away. We can help.”

No, they really can’t. But there is something to say for her eagerness, her willingness to help. If only you could accept. Maya was just a…she was evidence that this will all go bad eventually. You’ll slip up, say something you shouldn’t or lose control in front of one of your friends, and then everything will fall apart. Josie looks at you, dark eyes imploring you to just answer her. And so you do the only thing you can. You lie. The stars are bright and you examine them, looking away from the girl in front of you (someone you have hurt, over and over, and she does not even remember it and yet your history seems to be repeating as you push her away when all you want to do is let her in).

“I’m fine, Josie.” 

And it is so clearly a lie. Your voice is tired, heavy and slow, it is a lie that you beg her to not question even if she does not believe. It is a lie that has a hint of the truth, because while you may not be fine, you are used to the ache in your chest and the constant feeling of things being wrong. Of feeling like a pretender, someone filling a role. You did it when you were Hope Marshall. Now you do it as Andrea. It is familiar in a slightly sickening way, a way that leaves you uncomfortable in your own skin and unable to truly be who you are. 

Josie sees this, you know she does as her eyes rake over you, you can feel it even as you look at the glittering sky, a blanket of broken darkness. She sees this, and she pushes.

“No, you’re not.” A sudden flash of anger. Your eyes turn from the sky where they traced patterns ( _“see that one Hope, it’s called the little dipper” “Aunt Bekah, why’s it called that?”_ ), and burn into the girl whose writing graces your skin- and you can see the fading ink stain on her hand that is mirrored on your own. “But you don’t have to be. Just don’t distance yourself.”

She says it like it should be _easy_. For a moment, just for a second, rage burns at your tongue and you want to scream, not at her but at the situation. But you rein it back. Yes, it should be easy, when all you want to do is share what’s happening (want to seek your friends out on bad days, reveling in small touches and conversation, a reminder that they are safe and so are you) but it is not. It feels like you are tearing yourself apart. Trying to be Andrea yet clinging to Hope (and which one are you really, because you died, and changed into this…this broken thing)and the past. Because if no one else remembers the past then it is your job to hold on, and yet in doing so it is hard to separate the now from the then. It is hard to adjust for a relationship that has been built over the course of weeks when you have memories of one built over a decade. With Rafael and Landon it is easier in some ways, because the two have changed yet are still so similar to before and welcome you as they once did. 

Distancing yourself has helped you relax, even if it is painful (tears at your chest and heart, makes you cry in the hotel room sometimes) it is the only thing allowing you to stay sane (something rather precarious after Malivore). So yeah, it isn’t something you should have to do, but it is. And Josie will never be able to understand that because you can not tell her the truth. 

“It’s not.” You sigh, trying to find the words. Trying to be as honest as you can. “Josie, I need some space. There’s some stuff I’m dealing with and trying to figure out right now. And,” you stare at her pointedly as she opens her mouth to no doubt offer help, “it’s something I need to myself.”

“…okay.” She does not seem entirely happy, arms folded across her chest and sighing. “I’m not trying to, like, be invasive. But we are your friends, it would be nice to know you are still alive. Even if you need space, just…wave at us occasionally instead of hiding.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just, respecting my boundaries.” It sounds weird to say, but it is important to you that Josie knows you still consider her a friend (you could not ever truly dislike her, you think) and that this whole situation- painful as it is for you- does not need to be creating stress for her. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

I’m sorry for lying to you, you add silently. Josie nods, accepting the apology, and steps forward slightly. She shifts awkwardly for a moment, before opening her arms. It takes a second for you to catch on. A hug (how long has it been since you had one? When you hugged Landon before snapping his neck). You hesitate for a second more, before giving in to the desire (to be wrapped in comfort and warmth, to feel calm for a moment). She’s taller than you. It seems stupid to focus on, but as you rest she rests her chin on you it makes you feel safe.

Avoiding her wasn’t an entirely bad thing, you needed the time to clear your thoughts and release some of the tension that had been building. But being here, in Josie’s arms and feeling safe for the first time in a while, you realize that maybe it’s okay to stay for selfish reasons.

"Try not to do it again."

You nod, not bothering to respond verbally, and breathe deeply (lavender and citrus, natural senses. The school discourages strong or fake scents, it messes with the wolves and vampires). Saying you would not is a promise you can't make, because to tell the truth there is still so much uncertainty about the future that saying you won't ever leave or push your friends away could end up being a lie. And you don't want to speak more lies than you have to. You can try though, there is nothing wrong with trying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment or critique! Find us at thewisdomofspace on tumblr and yell about hosie with us (or send writing requests/questions about headcannons)


	7. Those who leave us (one who chose to leave)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Things are starting to heat up...

No winter without a spring

And beyond the dark horizon

Our hearts will once more sing…

For those who leave us for a while

Have only gone away

Out of a restless, care worn world

Into a brighter day.

Helen Rice

“Andrea!” 

She looks up, catches the worry and fear on your face, and something…shifts. Her eyes, blue and kind and soft, seem to darken, like a spring sky falling to a sudden shower of powerful rain. And that stance, so familiar (it’s like your dad’s, you finally recognize it) and her hands twitch as if about to grab or cast something. The shadows from the setting sun darken her face, you see it become blank and _empty_.

“Are you hurt?” It’s wrong, the way her voice is cold and worried. She looks you up and down. “What’s wrong?”

“No, no. Have you seen a person in a greek chiffon?”

“No, what’s going on?”

“I know that you said you don’t want any part of thi-“

“Stop.” You look at her, halting your plea for help, but she is not looking at you. She is looking around, searching, and (do her eyes flash?) her hand on your arm. The way she stands almost protective, covering your left side. “How can I help?”

“There’s a greek Titan running around.” Andrea blinks at you, stunned silent, and it would be funny if it wasn’t so serious. “Not, Kronos or anything, but Mnemosyne. Minor, maybe not an actual Titan but she said she was.”

She looks taken aback for a second, and her eyes are far away as if seeing something, and then a mix of confusion and fear. But it is buried beneath that cold determination. Her hand tightens around your arm. For a moment you revel in her warmth, Andrea always seems to radiate warmth (and safety). Your first thought when realizing that the monster was going to the town, was to find her. Even if she’s still being distant (and that hurts more than you would like to admit, but the way she looked at the sky, the weight to her voice as she spoke a lie that she was desperate to believe, you will not push) there is still the knowledge that she is…powerful. More so than you think the others realize, even if they have some inkling of it. But you can feel it under her skin, even when not drawing on your siphon abilities it is still there, and it is intoxicating (familiar).

“Do you have any bronze weaponry at that school of yours?” It’s a random question, and Andrea does not even look at you as she asks it, scanning the faces of the few people lingering on the streets today. What do bronze weapons have to do with this? The confusion must be obvious on your face as she elaborates. “Titans can be killed with magic but it takes…a lot.” And she says that like she has experience. Not for the first time, you wonder who the hell Andrea is. “But bronze weapons wielded by supernaturals can do the job too.”

“How do you know that?” She just shrugs, not answering. For all your decisions not to push, there are somethings that you refuse to let go of. “Andrea, what do you know?”

She looks away from you, and she is still standing near you protectively, this close you can see the way the muscles around her eyes tense, the way the power beneath her skin seems to fluctuate rapidly (with something you would almost call _pain_ ). Yet she sighs and it is just another lie that is on the tip of her tongue- even she seems tired with the constant dodging. Before she can speak though, a yell comes from nearby. It is a voice you recognize. 

“Lizzie.” 

You bolt, and Andrea is right beside you. Tearing down the street, fear racing through your veins. Not your twin, not Lizzie. Please. The grassy area in front of the coffee shop Andrea works at comes into view and ( _“you poked yourself”_ a flash of laughter and warmth) Lizzie is pressed up against a tree with a woman looming over her. Panic grips you, worse than when you wake up (no one knows you, you’re _gone,_ you’ve disappeared) from a nightmare, and you barely register the short, desperate ‘no’ that drops from your lips before you try to run over to her.

“Get the hell away from my sister!”

The woman looks over, tall and her brown hair spills down over the green chiffon, but her eyes are curious in a way that sends shivers down your spine. It’s like she sees something that makes her want to pull you apart, dissect you. As if you are a particularly curious ant. But she quickly turns her gaze over to Andrea and there is something like respect in her gaze. Recognition. 

“Ah, it is the little abomination.” The woman’s voice is cooing, low and beautiful to listen to. But it is lacking in any form of affection or positive emotion. Abomination? Andrea flinches, but snarls. “I would say it is good to see you again, but it is not. The Necromancer says hello.”

“Well here I am. Leave them alone.” Her voice is steady and her gaze is sharp, but it is not the girl you know. Looking at her, you see the same edge that she would get when someone snuck up on her. The way she looks at the Titan, analyzing and calculating, it is unsettling. “Are you going to come and get me?”

The woman tosses a glance over at Lizzie, who is staring into space, gaze flickering around wildly at things not there and you are not even sure she realizes where you are. What did the monster do? But she moves towards you, towards Andrea. 

“Go get your sister.” 

It’s an order, and a part of you bristles at it, but a bigger part of you just wants to make sure Lizzie is alright. So you move around the woman, careful to keep your distance but she does not even seem to see you, and run over to your twin. She’s still pressed flush against the tree, fingers digging into the bark, scratching, and her face is pale. Occasionally a word will fall from her mouth, nothing that makes any sense. You take her hands, blanching slightly at the blood on them from her clawing at the bark, and the press of her nails into your flesh, but there is no change.

“C’mon, Lizzie.” Your words are for you as much as her. Trying to reassure yourself. “Andrea! She did something to Lizzie!”

A growl. It vibrates across the ground and you can feel it in your bones. It is full of rage. There is a moment when you fear it came from the Titan, that Andrea has been cornered or hurt. But when you look up? When you look up, the pain from your sister’s fingers digging into your skin is forgotten, because Andrea has shifted. _Heretic_. That’s what comes to your mind first, when you catch sight of the fangs, but then you see the eyes. Dark sclera and golden eyes that have shadows of anger and something _other_ behind them. Hybrid, you had read about them in the history book. But there was no mention of them using magic. So, what the hell is Andrea?

The two are circling each other, and while Andrea probes occasionally, searching for an opening, it seems as if Mnemosyne has instinctively taken a defensive position. She reacts before Andrea does, blocking so fast it is difficult to see. Yet there is no fear in Andrea’s face as the two trade blows. In fact, your friend looks almost _bored_. Andrea darts forward, hand swiping across Mnemosyne’s arm, and thick red blood begins to drip from the cut (you had almost expected…something more, from the blood of a supposed Titan. But she was wounded so easily). As the blood drips down, staining the pretty robe, Mnemosyne’s face pales and it is as much from fear as it is from blood loss. 

“What did you do to Lizzie?”

Andrea is still calm, far too calm, and the way she practically struts around her cautious opponent makes you worried. Strong as she is, underestimating her opponent won’t do any good. Mnemosyne snarls, a vicious thing that holds far too much glee.

“Who was it that finally got you?” It is an odd question, simple, yet the way Andrea blanches hints to there being more to it. “You went through so many, but the pit was destroyed. Who was it that finally sunk their claws into you? I bet it was _glorious_. How did it feel to have the life leach from you?”

Andrea twitches, muscles tensing, and then she _moves_. Or you think she does, because one moment she is standing opposite to Mnemosyne, but a moment later her hand is wrapped around the woman’s throat. Even MG has a, a blur when he moves but Andrea was simply _there_. She was holding back, you process that before the words Mnemosyne spoke even fully register. But when they do you feel sick. Andrea has died (but how? Hybrids are made, not turned). The Titan scratches at the arm around her throat, and it slackens slightly, but not due to her attacks but because Andrea allows it.

“What did you do?” The woman doesn’t respond. The hand tightens again, and there is something unbalanced in Andrea’s eyes as she snarls out, words near unrecognizable. “Tell me and your death will be quick.”

Smirking, Mnemosyne abandons scratching at the arm and starts to cast, sucking in a breath that almost makes you wince in its harshness before she belts out something you do not understand. The results, though, you can see. Green and black, harsh light that is somehow too bright and too dark, sparks down her hand and shoots towards Andrea and…Flickers. It flickers across her skin before you can even yell, it fades and does nothing. You wait, breathless as even your heart seems to pause. Before Andrea tilts her head back and laughs. It is an ugly and twisted thing (a crazed and terrified thing). Mnemosyne stares in horror, going lax in the grasp on her throat. Before nodding and opening her mouth to speak in a voice far rougher than before from her forcing the spell through a strained throat. 

“Memories.” Andrea stares, and the woman that was so imposing (still standing over a foot taller than Andrea yet somehow dwarfed in your friend’s anger) rushes to explain. “There were parts of her memory taken. By Malivore. Not a clean job, those who made him were powerful but…indelicate and unversed in the mind. I simply removed the barrier that was keeping those, and a few other memories, away.” 

“Thank you.”

Andrea’s voice is calm. Even. Her voice holds the same emptiness that is in the shadows in her eyes. For a moment, her hand around Mnemosyne’s throat relaxes, and so does the Titan, but then she moves again, and her fist is buried in the woman’s chest. Without even speaking, Andrea casting no spell you can see, the woman- bearing bloodstained teeth as she dies- begins to crumble into dust. Andrea stands over the pile that was once a Titan, once someone worshiped as a _god_ , and does not look more than a little winded. 

She looks at you, face still shifted, and a deep, shuddering breath that wracks her body. For the first time, you realize that it was not quite determination on her face when she realized something was wrong, it was desperation. The kind of desperation your father has whenever the Merge is mentioned; the look of a person moving forward, willing to do anything, because they have nothing to do. It scares you (it worries you). 

“Andrea.” She shakes her head, as if tossing of her shift, and when she looks at back at you her eyes are blue once again. “Lizzie’s still…” You look down at your sister, and she is still unseeing, still living through memories that were taken (and what is she remembering? Who is she remembering? Hope?).“The spell didn’t end.”

You stare at your sister, trying to think of some spell that could help, and look up as the stuttering footsteps grow closer. Andrea crouches down, looking at Lizzie with undisguised worry. It is odd, to see your friend so worried for someone she barely knows- Lizzie had not been back for long, treatment just finished a week ago, you hadn’t had a chance to introduce the two- and yet it is so utterly her that it is slightly comforting. But she doesn’t speak, does not offer a solution even as it is obvious she is searching for one as she stares at Lizzie with mounting frustration. Then you feel a pulse of energy from Andrea (and you are not even touching her) and the solution hits you. Without a second thought, you focus on your sister, on the energy beneath her skin that you can tell is not her own, it feels like shadows, cold, and like a magnet, and you _pull._

It’s…disgusting, clammy, as the magic flows into you. It fights you every second, it seems wrapped around your sister’s energy, and then it snaps off like a rubber band. It riots under your skin, and you fight it down, before expelling it into the ground with a small spell. It leaves you drained, exhausted, and weak. You manage to hold on for a moment longer, checking that there is no more of the magic within your sister, before the world swims, darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision and you become lightheaded. The last thing you see is Andrea reaching for you, panic in her eyes, and (you know her, she was- you should know her, right?) then everything goes black.

* * *

Your sister stands in front of you- for various definitions of ‘in front’ when it comes to astral projection- and is bouncing on her feet near giddily. Marcel stands behind her, a tad more subdued but the wide smile on his face is just as joyful. 

“Text messages. You are joking.” Rebekah shakes her head, and even with the exasperation in your voice there is the same happiness rising in your chest that seems to be spreading around. “Dozens of witches, vampires, and wolves. And our information comes from _text messages_ that were somehow overlooked.”

“Whatever works, right?”

“I guess…What did you find?”

Rebekah settles a bit, her joy fading into something more somber (and you know how she feels, to see images of someone that you, apparently, loved but to have no memories. It feels…violating, in a way, to know that these memories have been stolen). Keelin has her hand on you, the real you, and the touch helps to settle your worries, not remove them, but calming them. Rebekah looks at Marcel, who answers, 

“She’s in Mystic Falls.”

Ah. That’s why Rebekah looks like she has tasted something particularly unpleasant. No doubt that the idea of Mystic Falls has brought back painful memories. This entire thing has not been good for anyone (bags hang under your eyes, it has been days since you slept but with all the stress it has brought old nightmares and fears to the forefront) and the very idea of going back is likely to create more anxiety. But knowing that you are so close, to figuring this out and to finding your family, it tastes like victory (you can only hope it will not be a pyrrhic one). 

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Chicago is the quickest, but it will take a couple days to get there.”

Everyone scowls at that, the idea of knowing where the girl could be and yet having to wait to go is antithesis to them. There is also the worry of what you will find, will you actually find the girl, or will you find a grave? And that scares you more than it probably should when it comes to a girl you do not even know. But you look at Nik, and if this girl is alive then you would not want her to be alone. Especially if the certain holes in your memory are correct, then she did know Klaus and Hayley- and there are large, _large_ chunks of your memory missing where it concerns Hayley. 

“We’ll meet here, in New Orleans, for preparation. Davina and Kol are already on their way. Stay safe, sister.”

And then you can see Keelin, sitting beside you with poorly concealed anticipation. Your house is a disaster, not just from the research you have been doing but also from having Nik (and you may or may not have done a sleeping spell…) as a child. He seems to be taking after his namesake more than you would like with his chaos.

“We found where she is- or was, at least.” A heavy sigh leaves you, stress and exhaustion mingling with a new found hope that you find difficult to stifle. “Mystic Falls.”

“How long until we leave?” Her question is a valid one, but it is not one she will like the answer for. And she seems to recognize that from some minuscule tensing of your muscles “Freya…”

“You can’t come-“ Keelin opens her mouth to argue- “think about Nik. He needs someone with him, and Rebekah will need me with her in case…”

In case what you find is just another dead family member. Keelin knows this, but it does not stop the low noise in the back of her throat that you know is her dislike. Yet you will not risk her, not now. One of you being placed in possible danger (and it is always something dangerous when it concerns a Mikaelson, you doubt that this girl will be any different) is bad enough. It is part of the reason you have not turned to darker magic; because it may have a solution, may be able to reverse whatever has been done to you, but in turn it could do something much worse.

Keelin leans against you, warm and solid, and it is as if she knows your fears. Can hear them. On some level, it scares you how well she can read you but…it is also a comfort, because around her you can not fade to the background, she seeks you out and reminds you that you are here (holds you when you wake up crying, terrified of the dark, terrified to fall back asleep for fear of not waking again until everyone you know is gone). 

“Breakfast? I’ll make chocolate pancakes.”

“Oh, _yes_. I love you.”

Your wife (and you relish in saying that, the way it rolls of your tongue with pride) pulls away with a snort, swatting you gently across the shoulder.

“You love my food, important distinction.”

Grinning, you just nod at her and even as she walks away you can hear her eyeroll. It is a comfortable relationship. Maybe not as passionate as it once was, but safe and strong and normal in all the best ways (not a burning heat, but a simmer in your chest that has you smiling at the oddest times). It was only upon your last Waking from the spell that the words were there, scrawled across your right wrist, and there was confusion at first. But then you realized what it meant, that you had a soulmate. You felt like a giddy schoolgirl, more composed of course, but the way you would spend hours tracing over the messy handwriting that is mirrored on the grocery list hanging from the fridge. 

Of course, the words were far from romantic ( _you just…you waved your hand and his brain melted_ ) and it took time before the two of you were willing to acknowledge them, but it ended well all the same. Not a conventional romance, but when have you _ever_ done anything by conventional means. The smell and sound of cooking pancake creep into the living room, and you stand from your spot on the floor- groaning slightly at the way your blood rushes back into your complaining legs- and survey the file in front of you. 

Everything that concerns the girl is in there. But there is room upstairs, nestled towards the back of the hallway, that has a cleanly made bed and smells faintly of peppermint, the same smell as the natural soap you found in the bathroom. There are paintings, all with the same passion but showing the passing of time and practice. Klaus and you had a rocky start, to say the least, but you came to love each other- he was your family and when he and Elijah died it just added to the pain you felt from loosing Finn. To know that there is someone out there that is part of your family, that is alone, it makes you sad (and you know it is unfair to have hopes of finding someone to fill the hole left by your brothers death but there is still the desire to know this girl). 

Angry as well. There is a reason Klaus’s daughter was wiped from your family’s memory, be it malicious or benevolent you do not appreciate the stress it has created. However, after a time of peace, it almost feels overdue. Life has never been dull, and the quiet was beginning to grow a tad stale anyways. 

* * *

Sun falls over your face, streaks of warmth and too much light that blinds your blinking and dull eyes. It is not an enjoyable waking, you are sore, the kind of sore where even your teeth ache and there is a raw feeling across all of your skin, like you spent too long in hot water. Lizzie! Blankets fall to the side as you sit up, quickly forgotten as you search the room for your sister. Her bed is messy, and clothes are haphazardly tossed around. She was in a hurry, but it is clear she was here. You can see her shirt from last night tossed onto the end of her bed. 

She’s gone. All you can do is send her a message, hoping she replies quickly. Your thoughts turn to…yesterday? A glance at your phone shows that, yes, you have been out since yesterday. Remembering the magic, that clawed and bit at you like a wild animal, and the way Andrea shoved her hand through the titan’s chest with such fury. Yet that vanished when she saw you, turned into concern and worry. It is hard to reconcile both images. But you are not scared of her, it is hard to ever think that Andrea could look like that with you because there is always a _tenderness_ and care in how she looks at you. 

But she is hiding things, bigger than you ever anticipated. Some sort of…witch, werewolf, and vampire. A tribrid. Something that should be impossible. Not to mention that Mnemosyne recognized her, called her an abomination, said they had met before. You are far from stupid. There are parts about her that have not added up, about her past and reason for staying. The way she would look at you and everyone else (how she seemed to pull back, at times being too comfortable and then too tense, as if unsure as to the depth of your friendship). Even as she would smile, joke, and laugh, there was a nervous energy that disturbed her calm. The only times she truly seemed at peace was when she closed her eyes, instinctively reaching out to brush an arm or leg against the closest person- often you- and just appeared to be elsewhere. As if she was remembering something. 

You are not stupid. Everything is…adding up to something that is starting to make a pit of anger burn in your stomach. Andrea. Never gave a last name, Landon mentioned that she felt…off. She knew about the monsters. ‘Bad experience with supernaturals’ she said, not werewolves like you had thought for the bite on her neck, no, ‘supernaturals’. A Malivore monster. There was experience in the way she moved (in the look that veiled every other emotion, in how she instinctively covered you) and it shows that this was not her first experience with fighting. She moved into action like your friends have become used to (but even then, there was a fluidity that your friends lack). And at the mention of Lizzie’s memories being given back, there was something like fear and hope in her eyes. As if she would be affected. Everything you know, have put together, can only come to one conclusion. Andrea is Hope Mikaelson.

The bed is still warm as you fall onto it, blankets pooling around your ankles, and it feels like all the air has been wiped from your lungs. As if acknowledging the secret removes a weight from your shoulders. You had suspected, there were far to many inconstancies, but dwelling on the idea hurt. It would have ruined the fragile peace that was between everyone. An- _Hope_ spoke of running, and even with the pain that laced her body it was clear she was going to do it- would if you brought this up. This week only reinforced that idea, how she pushed you away out of some sort of fear or nervousness. Letting this go now though, is out of the question. Because these monsters are looking for her, when they were once coming after Landon they disappeared for a time and when they returned it was with Hope as the goal. 

Mnemosyne said they had met before, and Hope had looked confused, before a spark of recognition lit up her face. An unpleasant meeting. One you don’t think Mnemosyne got off well from if the way she seemed frightened of Hope before the fighting even truly began. Yet she was not without her own barbs, physical and verbal. You saw Andre- no, shit, _Hope_ (that’s going to take some getting used to) take some blows. But nothing compared to the look on her face when Mnemosyne brought up dying. The way her eyes both focused and went distant, unseeing, the way her voice as she repeated her question was terrifyingly empty. 

_‘Save Hope Mikaelson’_ you had written, before she was erased from your memory, but you couldn’t. Your father spoke about Malivore, not that you were meant to hear him, and how those within were stuck in endless darkness- a form of psychological torture. Hope went through that, while you were joking with Lizzie about foreign boys and feeling guilty for voting against your father (even if he stayed, and Kaleb’s vote surprised you, there were still restrictions that he has been chaffing at). Part of you knows it’s irrational to feel guilty, you had started searching for this girl quickly, yet there was barely anything. But a bigger part of you just wishes that this had gone better.

Now, the part of this you had been trying to ignore, for the other truth that had come out. One that you would not have known if it was not for Penelope’s book (you sent a message to her, a short one, thanking her. She hasn’t responded, and you can’t blame her) because it seems that was a secret Hope never addressed. She’s your soulmate. This girl, beautiful and kind, who can always make you smile and is far more of a dork than she likes to show, is your soulmate. And she is absolutely, utterly, _infuriating_. She looked at you, and did not tell you. All the days you spent in the coffee shop, searching and digging through your notes to find a scrap of new information, and the girl you were looking for was right in front of you the entire time. 

Malivore took your memories from all of you (and what were yours of? Were you close with Hope? Not enough, she kept the soulmate thing from you) and yet Hope still came around. The way she would look at all of you, memories of things that never happened for everyone playing out, and she desperately tried to keep them away. Tried to treat everyone like friends she was just getting to know (the way she would slip up, look at you with _pain_ or the way she would say your name with such fondness). She didn’t let you help. She could have told you! A flash of anger, burning, and you feel the urge to grab Hope by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Every spell can be broken (you have to believe that, with the Merge), did she even try? Or did she just…decide to suffer (knowing her, and you do know her despite whatever was wiped, you know the Hope of now, the one who cried at the Lion King and loves little touches, knowing her you can assume that is why she did nothing). 

The door swings open, interrupting your thoughts of stalking down to the coffee shop and grabbing Hope by the shoulders to yell at her, and bangs against the wall. Lizzie stands in the doorway, halfway between fury and exasperation. Her hair, normally perfect, is in disarray and there is a flush in her cheeks- either from the anger or exertion that makes her breaths deeper. 

“Lizzie, are you-“

“Malivore. Someone we knew went into Malivore and- you know.” She stops, throwing her hands up, as she sees the lack of shock on your face. Muttering things under her breath before speaking up. “Tell me what you know.”

“Uh, Lizzie-“

“ _Tell. Me.”_

Arguing with her is not wise when she sounds like that, there is no dissuading or distracting her. Being interrupted is annoying, but the anger in Lizzie’s face is quickly fading to something like fear and is worrying. Hiding this was also something you had grown tired of long ago, even if it seemed like the best way to keep her focused on the trip with mom instead of what was happening here. 

“My soulmate. That’s who was missing. Hope Mikaelson, also known as Andrea.” Saying it aloud makes everything more real. Lizzie reels back slightly, as if part of the information was unknown to her, but she shakes her head, gesturing for you to continue. “I was planning on going to New Orleans, some of Dad’s notes said that Freya Mikaelson lives there. But, now we know who was missing and…you remember her, don’t you? Whatever Mnemosyne did to you, it brought back your memories.”

Powerful but indelicate, removing the barrier. That was what she had said, right? Lizzie blanches slightly, face paling even further, and you step forward to grab her hand. She doesn’t back away, and squeezes your hand tightly, almost painfully so. Her eyes are turned down, away from you, and her voice is uncharacteristically subdued. 

“Yeah…I have all of my memories back.” She says that like she means more than Malivore, but before you can press her, she rushes on. “We need to go to New Orleans, Freya Mikaelson is a powerful witch, and, well….Hope isn’t exactly in Mystic Falls anymore.”

“Lizzie, what do you mean by that.” She doesn’t acknowledge you. “ _Lizzie_ , what happened?”

“I may or may not have confronted Hope.” The words come out in a rushed mess, and it takes a few moments for you to understand them. Lizzie laughs nervously. “Turns out, I caught her in the middle of a breakdown, and she’s rushing off to take care of- I think she said the Necromancer.” 

You stare. The worst possible situation you can come up with flits to mind, and you gape in horror,

“You didn’t blame her for the monsters, did you?”

“Well, I didn’t blame her per se, but I did insinuate that her sacrifice was for nothing.” Lizzie pauses, as if reflecting on the conversation. “She may have taken it the wrong way.”

“Sacrifice?”

“Oh, sorry, you don’t remember. Hope went to help Landon, and apparently ended up throwing herself into the pit to destroy it?” She sighs, scrunching her nose slightly and shrugging. “All I know is what you told me before the Malivore wipe, you burst into our room looking for some paper and a pen and you were ranting about Hope not being meant to die, or some sort of loophole.” 

_‘I’m Nature’s Loophole’._ Words, shaky and filled with pain covered slightly by the static of your phone. For the first time, you get a flash of a memory and it _stays_. It’s just a glimpse, of you running through the halls as Hope explains why she has to die, but it is more than you had before. It isn’t the first time this has happened, other times there were glimpses, phrases, that were so wormed into you that even Malivore couldn’t suppress them entirely. But you couldn’t keep them. Mnemosyne’s spell, siphoning it must have done this. Even if it didn’t return all of your memories, it did so for Lizzie. This is how you can get your memories back. 

“Hope is going after The Necromancer?”

“Yeah, I don’t know where, or even how, but she was pretty insistent on going. On fixing this.”

“And we don’t have anything to track her. But Freya might.”

Lizzie nods solemnly, taking a step back and looking around the room, before breathing deeply and looking you square in the eyes. Determination sharpening her gaze.

“We’re going to New Orleans.” A pause. “Dad is _so_ going to kill us.” 

“He can deal with it.” _‘Save Hope Mikaelson’._ Maybe you didn’t do it when she was in Malivore, but here and now? You can get her family, bring back her memories, and stop whatever sacrificial mission she thinks she gets to do alone. Lizzie is watching you as you look back up, and through the twin bond it is hard to separate the determination from both of you. “Let’s go save Hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: I hope you guys enjoyed the longer chapter! I'm getting my wisdom teeth cut out (along with a few others) and so I will not be posting the next chapter until I'm recovered. It won't be too long! If I'm not able to post within a week, Wisdom will go ahead and upload our prewritten chapter. Please leave a comment or critique below!


	8. Bloody feet (the pain is a distraction and motivation)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wis: Hellooo, so, Cosmos is still in pain (china doesn't really believe in painkillers, and the poor girl has more teeth being taken out monday) so you guys get me. This arc is not going to last long at all, Cosmos really wants to move into the healing part. Fear not, soon Hope will be with her friends and family!

There is a silence where hath been no sound,

There is a silence where no sound may be,

In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea

Or in the wide desert where no life is found,

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;

No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,

That never spoke, over the idle ground:

But in green ruins, in the desolate walls

Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,

Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,

And owls, that flit continually between,

Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,

There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone

Thomas Hood

Start with the facts. Separate your emotions from them and just observe (even as a part of you cries in anger and fear) as if it is another person. And it does almost feel like a different person, because the way your hands shake feels distant, even your sight feels far away, looking into things not truly there. This is the only reason that the panic can be kept at bay when you think:

Malivore is not gone.

A jarring realization, one you could not dwell on at the time. Buried below the cold apathy and desperation that drove you forward when Josie approached with worry and fear in her eyes. The memories itself, flashing across your vision with little warning in a manner similar to you falling into your own fears, came with a feeling of… _hunger_. While your first realization was of Malivore not being gone, the second one was far more terrifying. 

Malivore is a part of you.

Even thinking it makes you feel ill. The trash bin in front of you can attest to that. It is _inside_ you. Not just tainted, broken, and ruined from the experience (Dead. You died. And did you ever truly come back?), but with Malivore latched onto you like some kind of twisted fucking leech. You want to claw at your skin, feels like the pressure of a shift, the desire to just crawl out of yourself and be something else, something wild and untouched. 

Malivore can…share (is that the best term for having them forced into your head?) memories.

It reminded you almost of the Hollow, of urges and actions not your own, of things that forced you to act through a half remembered haze of anger. You remember though, fighting Mnemosyne in the dark. Flashes of light as you exchanged spells, an exhaustion of magic wearing on you even as your body felt fine, and then one final attack, a spell so powerful that it left you bent over for god knows how long. Yet you also remember stalking her, a body not your own following her as she wandered through villages and took memories of trauma, to ease pain, and returning memories stolen by magic. A life of good. Until it turned. Her running through the woods, you following torn branches and the stink of magic, and she looked back at you with horror. No spell she cast saved her. And then in Malivore, she changed. Insanity brought by the isolation. Memories not your own, and yet they are in your head all the same. 

Malivore is _not_ alive. It is more of an echo.

That is the only thing preventing you from crumbling, from curling into a hysterical ball in the corner from mind numbing terror (it did not stop the panic attack, your chest still aches). Even if you felt him in your head **(CONSUME)** it was easily ignored…for the most part. Your hand through her chest, the spell (was it really a spell?) you cast, were those your actions? There is no true way to tell. But the result is all the same. The Titan is gone, because you **(CONSUMED)** obliterated her and took the energy for yourself. He is not alive, there is a sort of rebellion at him being alive, a dissatisfaction almost but a grudging respect towards you. There is a difference between what you did, and what Malivore used to do: Malivore kept them, in isolation and insanity, you _destroyed_ her. Yet you feel better, the power flowing beneath your skin and almost purring, as if you just had fresh animal blood and whiskey (disgust fills you as well, low and ignored). 

On some level, there is guilt. But it is tempered by the memories of all the beasts trying your friends, and you, so the guilt quickly dissipates. No one is allowed to hurt your friends. They are _yours._ You see your mother in you sometimes, in your laughter and smile (in your paranoia, so strong and encompassing, like her on a bad day). Sometimes you see your father, in your sarcasm and confidence (in how you use words to hurt as readily as your fists). But this, the desire to kill anyone who comes for your friends, your willingness to do anything for them- even at great personal cost. That is _you_ (perhaps that also has part of your father and mother in it, how they so readily pushed people away, but that is a habit you are trying to unlearn). 

It scares you- not. It paralyzes you with terror, the thought of Malivore being intertwined with you (with your very being). There is no spell that can see how deep this goes, if magic would even help with removing this. Or if you are just forever stuck with the very object of your nightmares tangled within you. The grimoires, the only things that may be able to help, were most likely grabbed and burned by Josie. Along with all the knowledge within. 

There is no way to fix this. No way to figure this out. So of course, this is not your only issue. It is not enough to have some kind of magic killer inside of you (not the first time…) but the Necromancer is apparently chasing you too. The creature- he does not _deserve_ to be called human- that taunted and tortured the twins and Rafael. Having Josie buried by her own mother. The bastard is going to die. You are going to _rip_ his throat out and make sure he never hurts anyone again. The first time you went after the leader of evil, you died. But you are back, and furious and broken and have a monster crowing for death in your head, with nothing to lose. 

Lizzie and Josie…The former was not doing well, as you carried them back to the school (knocking on Alaric’s door, leaving a note, and then running), and if you did not heal easily there would be claw marks on your arm. There were marks on Josies hands. And where was Alaric? He was meant to protect them. Yet, he would not have done any better than you, he is just a human and with all the limitations that comes with. Josie saw you shift, will recognize at least some of it from her father’s stories, and the monsters will continue to come. Staying is causing more issues. You wanted to help, to protect them. However, you are the very reason they face danger. Leaving is the only option now. Finding the Necromancer (you know where he is, wordlessly whispered to you by Malivore and the tug in your chest) and remove him. 

The bed shakes as you stand from it violently, hands running through your hair, as you begin to pace. The room far too small for such an action. Thoughts, moving so fast through your head they are impossible to grasp. But the centre of your thoughts is always the one burning desire to leave. To find the Necromancer. You stayed to protect them, because you fancied yourself a _shield_. A protector. When in reality, all you are is a weapon. A loophole. Designed for nothing more but to tear your way through enemies and then die (did you learn nothing from Malivore? From your family history?). 

A green duffle back slams against your back as it’s tossed over a shoulder, the door to the too small room is open before you fully realize that your body has begun to move- with no true input from your mind. Once comforting, the morning breeze now seems too cold (your throat aches as it strains against your painful and sharp breaths) and the memories of Malivore, of your erased past, are at the surface, raw and painful like a scab picked clean. Your feet move, the noise of them on the pavement feel separate, the actions are your own but it feels like they are not of your own body (it is not truly your own, will not be until Malivore is gone, if it will ever be gone). 

Perhaps it is telling that you end up in the park, fingers buried in the dirt as your back slams against a tree. And even though your breaths are deep, even though the cold air fills your lungs and exits, it is as if there is not enough oxygen and the world in front of you swims. At times too dark or too bright, you see what is in front of you but it is not the focus. The anger, racing through your veins like adrenaline, is what holds all of your attention.

It is not the red bloodlust of your father. That drove him to such incomprehensible acts at times. Because he felt everything so strongly, beyond just the heightened emotions of being a hybrid, your father threw himself into every emotion with wild abandon. He was quick to anger, a lifetime of betrayal and fear making him sharp edges, softened whenever he was with you. That anger was cruel, about inflicting pain and suffering. It is not your anger.

Nor is it the anger of your mother’s. A sharp tongue and long held grudges, plans put into motion not enacted until years later. Your mother was many things, all things you loved her for, but there is no doubt she could and did fall prey to the darkness inside her. Her anger was slow, it burned low and simmered until finally exploding into a grand display that scared most people. 

No, your anger is white. A cold, all encompassing chill that somehow sharpens and dulls your senses. It covers you like fresh snow, undisturbed, but hiding terrors below the surface if tread upon by unknowing feet. It is not a soft anger, not a fast one, but it is one that has been building since the first monster came for you and your friends. It is an anger that _blinds_ in its brightness. Yet you see more clearly than ever for some things. Like how you have been wasting time. You knew something was wrong, a creeping feeling attributed to mere paranoia, and instead of listening you hid. Looking at your friends, and knowing they did not see you, you tried to pretend. Tried to act like you ever really had a chance at a semi-normal life. But you were never more right than when you spoke to Josie on the day of the jump. Nature’s Loophole. Not a hero, never that (Mikaelsons are not heros, they try but they die) but you are a _sacrifice_.

Trying to convince yourself otherwise was foolish. Is it any wonder everything is falling apart not (is it any wonder _you_ are falling apart now)?

* * *

Even in the depths of your (panic) anger, you are not so far gone as to be oblivious of the footsteps near you, approaching you. Grass crunches under their feet, steps heavy and indelicate, the steps of someone either furious or determined. Steps you recognize, you have heard them often enough even if they have been absent for the past few months. You look up to see Lizzie looming over you, false smile plastered onto her face (and you have seen it enough times to know that it is false.) and her words, nearly spit out, drip with anger and frustration and something you can’t quite identify.

“How ya doing, _Hope._ ”

Your name, one you had repeated at night sometimes (to remind yourself of who you were, because the world has forgotten and it is your duty to remember), falls from her lips pointedly. It hurts. But it is what you deserve, you knew somehow, that even if a person had remembered they would not come back with kind or fond memories. Perhaps you had begun to open up towards the end, but that does not undo years of distance and barbs- or the fact you have spent so much time lying to their faces. At least it is Lizzie. Because she will not lie or dance around the truth, once she figured it out (and how, how did she remember, could Jo-no, that way no longer matters) she confronted you. There should be panic, wrapping around you in a vice and making it difficult to breath, but there is nothing but an all consuming emptiness and apathy. 

“You remember.”

It is not a question, not with how she looks at you. She seemed to be looking for some sort of response, and it is the only thing you can offer right now. Some other time (where you were more in control of yourself, less concerned with the soul leach, not about to run) you would have been overjoyed, if not poking at Lizzie jokingly- with relief that _someone_ remembers. That is not this time. Despite the apathy, there is some spark of relief. Lizzie will not be as sad when you do not return from this fight as some other’s would be (‘ _let someone else do it for once!_ ’ But this is what you were made for, this is what you want to do- and why stay in a place with ghosts that look at you and see a friend when all that is there is a liar and a coward) and she will keep this secret if you ask. 

“Hope. _Andrea_. Mikaelson.” She states your name forcefully, dramatically but of course that doesn’t need to said when it concerns Lizzie. “What the hell have you been doing!?”

Ah. She’s no doubt angry with you, for worming you way back into your fr-your classmate’s lives, bringing danger back onto them again. Lizzie is many things (more than a few complementary ones when she drops her mask), but stupid and hard of hearing are not any of them. The monster- no, you can not quite call Mnemosyne a monster when you saw exactly what she went through, how easily it could have been you if the time in the dark stretched out any longer. You will not do Mnemosyne the disservice, the cruelty in ignoring who she once was and could have been, by calling her a monster. She was a Titan, a powerful witch (and something else, something _more_ in a way Malivore’s memories can not quite articulate). Mnemosyne made it clear that she had met you before, and that she was returning Lizzie’s memories. She will know that her family is in danger once again (you’re sorry, you tried, it wasn’t enough) but you will fix it. You have to.

“Don’t worry, Lizzie. I’m fixing it.”

Your voice is hollow, flat in all the wrong ways, yet there is still a tinge of distress, as if you have to convince yourself alongside Lizzie. 

“Fixing it? That’s what you call this?” Lizzie throws her hands up, the movement so utterly her own that it feels like you should smile- then it passes and she’s glaring at you. “I woke up, with your name on my mind- and frankly, your name is the last thing I want out of my mouth when I wake up, because _ew_. And poof! Memories!” She pauses, shuddering slightly and continuing, almost to herself. “All those jokes about ‘Andrea’ being Josie’s summer fling now make me want to barf.” She starts glaring at you again, as if it’s your fault. Well, it kind of is. “My jokes should not make me feel that way!”

“They make _me_ feel that way.”

“Oh, don’t you start! What in the world were you thinking!? Throwing yourself into Malivore, what were you trying to do?” The question isn’t rhetorical but she does not bother to stop for an answer. “It didn’t even stop the monsters and we lost you.” To hear her practically throw your failures in front of you, laid bare and stark, makes you flinch. Can’t even die right, can you? “And you didn’t even tell us you were back! Why, what in the _world_ made you think we wouldn’t want you to tell us?”

“It would have caused more issues than it was worth.”

She pins you with a scowl, hot enough to melt steel if she so wished, and the sigh, more of a growl, that comes from her is one of pure frustration. One she often makes when speaking to you, at least before Malivore it was…softer than it had been in the past, but now there’s a tinge of anger to it. 

“Are you kidding me? No, of course not, because you are a noble _idiot_ that wants to save everyone, and the idea that you could use some help probably never made it through that thick skull of yours!”

She’s ranting, and you are only half paying attention as she does so. Stalking back in forth in front of you, it is easy to fall back into planning how to get to Kansas as Lizzie’s words wash over you. It is almost comforting in a way, a beat that your thoughts can follow along too. At least, until her hands land on your shoulders. Because suddenly, you are not in the park, nor are you in Malivore, or New Orleans, or the forest cabin, but some twisted amalgamation of them. One where the only thing you are sure of, the only truth that beats in time with your far too fast heart, is the warning of danger. And the claw-no, hands fall away as you rocket upright. Growling and teeth bared. 

Lizzie scrambles backwards, flailing to keep her balance and a curse falling from her lips- you are too busy trying to reign back the change to truly notice (heightened emotions, you know this, know it is why the anger seems so encompassing, the hopelessness, but it is a distant and dull thought buried below the knowledge that you are still right). It is painful and slow, your teeth do not want to slide back into your jaw, and every grinding inch they retract is an inch you have to fight for. The landscape seems to flicker, something indefinable coming in and out every other blink as you eyes flash, until they finally settle. When you have finally regained some mockery of control (your change still prowling right below your skin, the beast roaring at the intrusion to its space, and the threat it saw when there was only meant to be comfort), you can finally process there is a hint of fear in Lizzie’s posture. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your lips move and the words that come out are in your voice, but they lack inflection, too many conflicting emotions fighting for dominance just leaves you monotonous. It only seems to make Lizzie even more tense. Your feet shift against the ground, rubber against dirt, and the duffle bag- still on your back- thuds as you shuffle backwards. Into the tree, but you pay it little mind. Distance, that should help her. Should calm the panic. Right? Yeah, yeah, that’s part of why you are leaving. To keep them safe, even if it is from yourself. A deep, shuddering breath comes from the girl in front of you. Looking more disheveled and less casually messy the more her face pales. 

“…seems there were a couple other things I forgot, thanks smurfette.”

A harsh whisper, an exhale of breath more than actual words, and one that would have escaped your notice if not for the hyperawareness right now. Even if they were heard, however, they don’t make any sense. Smurfette? No, it does not matter. There is panic and fear in her eyes, pallor sickly and hands shaking. You did that, look at her (people looked at your father like that once, you did once, when you walked in on him covered in blood, and you understand the mix of anger and self-loathing in his voice far better now than you did then). 

End the conversation and leave, _now_ (quickly, or you will never leave at all). The growing pull in your stomach, beyond the burgeoning guilt, is only half yours- the rest Malivore- tugging you to the Necromancer is becoming far more noticeable. Like a rubber band being stretched too far. Lizzie is a distraction, on you don’t need right now (but it is one you want, you want to hear her say your name again, have her look at you and _know_ you even if that knowing comes with dislike).

“Wait, Hope…Where are you going?” Finally, her eyes land on the duffle bag. But it seems like she is reaching for a distraction from what happened before. “Are you _leaving_?”

“Yes.”

“…that’s it? You’re just gonna _run_.” Lizzie’s fear seems forgotten, anger resurfacing instead. “One little Titan. That’s it, and now you’re running away. What about us, huh? What about Josie? You are a _coward_.”

And that does it. The control you fought for, something you prided yourself on, _snaps_ and everything comes pouring out as your teeth gnash. Once again the teeth of a hybrid (werewolf and vampire together, along with a witch, an abomination indeed). 

“I’m doing this for you, _for Josie.”_ Your next words are harsh, meant to cut and wound and push like all the times before. But crueler then playground jabs. “Not that someone like you would understand. At least I’m doing something that will help instead of hurt.”

Normally, Lizzie would brush the insult off, poke back at you even harder after scoffing it away. But this hits harder than before, and she actually stumbles back a bit with a vacant look in her eyes for a moment, once again that fear on her face. Guilt, maybe even misery, slinks through your haze but it is not enough to deter you. Very few things could at this point (not even Josie).

And so you turn, ad begin to walk out of the park. Down the street. Out of Mystic Falls. It is a trip you made once before, one that you did not manage to complete, and while the itch of words across our stomach stopped you then, it only serves to drive you onward now. 

* * *

Bus after bus. Slow and steady. The endless forests and fields occasionally broken up by a gas station or small town. It takes less than an hour for you to tire of sitting on the bus, but you hold out for almost an entire day (of sitting with nothing but your thoughts and the memories Malivore pushes at you of the Necromancer). After coming to a stop at a bus stop, near identical to the rest you had stopped at, you finally give up and stalk away from the ticket counter with a huff. You shift. Maneuver the bag onto your form (requiring contortions that would make you laugh at any other time) and then run. Over concrete and empty sidewalks at night, through forests and plains under the sun. You run until the pads of your paws bleed, then continue onwards. Until your healing can not repair the blisters and cuts fast enough. Until the hunger burning at your throat becomes more distracting than the pull in your chest. Only then do you pause.

This forest is not lush, seeped in life and magic and blood, like Mystic Falls. It is desolate. Filled with dead trees too close together and creeping shadows that look like jagged and crooked claws, only a few empty echoes of birds and the still warm corpse of a deer signal any life at all. Leaves blanket the ground here, wherever here is, leaving the trees bare and shivering, making the ground crunch below your feet like bones (like the bodies you stepped, tripped, and stumbled over in Malivore). It is here that the haze breaks enough for your sadness and pain to worm its way through. And you howl it into the night. Before shifting back for a moment, clothing yourself, and resting against a broken log. Your breathing is hard. Not just from the run, from the shift, but from the pain. A pain so deep it makes your heart thrash in agony. Like the day after your mother’s death, after your father’s, after Uncle Elijah’s, after….too many deaths. Too many times they have left, and too few times that you have said goodby. So, with shaking fingers and shuddering breaths, you pull out the pictures you had drawn of everyone. And you say goodbye.

One night of feeling and freedom, one night to not pretend running is easy, one night to remember your friends and family with all the pain and love it brings. A night of mourning that you have been avoiding for years.

Death is not a guaranteed thing (but from what Malivore has showed you, it is more than likely) yet you can not help but dwell on what would be after. Something that does not often reach your thoughts, not out of any lack of curiosity but of too much. Because that way leads to madness and what ifs. Questions that should go unanswered. But now, there is little risk in doing so. Maybe you will see your parents. If it is peace, you would like to see them. Ask them for forgiveness, hug them so tightly it hurts. 

Maybe you will get to see your other family members, those you did not get to meet. You have heard awful stories about them (hell, your grandfather wanted to kill you), but they could not have been entirely bad. There has to be something more to the stories than the villains they were written as. Part of it, you know, is that you do not want to be related to such monsters. Not in the sense of supernatural, but in they committed such atrocities that there was no hope for redemption in them. People learn about your father like that, a two dimensional villain with no good deeds, your mother barely a footnote (a teacher once described her as ’falling victim to an evil Mikaelson’ like she was nothing more than a damsel instead of one of the strongest people you’ve ever known. The teacher didn’t last long, and the detention was worth it), and your aunt rarely spoken of. Except for as another villain, but for Caroline instead. Freya is just…a powerful witch, if ever that. The forgotten sister. But it is better then people snarling at her, some giving you dirty looks after a lesson on Mikaelson’s like it was your fault (maybe that is where your sacrificial streak came from, trying to make up for the failings of your family. What a heavy burden to bear). Another part of you is fearful of what their reaction would be to seeing you. Epic love, do right by the Mikaelson name, make your voice heard…Your parent’s last requests and you could not do a single one. Hell, you went the complete opposite direction with the last one.

But lingering on this topic is not something you can do for long, not without falling (deeper) into self-loathing and sadness. Instead, you focus your thoughts on happier things. On painting with your father, the way Aunt Rebekah would always dance in the kitchen when cooking early in the morning, how your mother would give you a smirk that told you she knew everything but would let you get away with it. Focus on how Josie laughs, on Rafael’s disgusting habit of drinking orange juice after brushing his teeth (he does it to weird Landon out, he admitted it to you one day), even on that awkward as hell car trip that was so domestic. In the forest, not your forest but a silent one that is now filled by your shining tears and small, sad smile, you sit and remember things not sad for the first time in a while.

The next morning, as the breeze makes the trees groan, you wake and begin the try once more. No maps or paths to guide you, the only thing you need is the pull in your chest. It feels like a coil of nerves, both good and bad, writhing around wildly yet tugging in a single direction. Only growing as time passes, making you jittery. The haze of apathy and chill that broke last night comes back, and you sink into it effortlessly, if only to dull the edge of everything else.

Yet when the building, the one you had been to so long ago (but you remember it like it is still playing out, curse of a vampire’s memory), finally comes into view- you have to pause and remind yourself this is real. Not another memory. Looking at the building, you can see the signs of abandonment and passing time, not to any great extent but enough that it helps to separate the ghosts in your head from this. There are spiderweb cracks crawling across the stone, stretching across it and vines curl out from them; grabbing onto the building and making it seem less unnatural against the other greenery. And the hum of electricity that pricked at your senses the first time is absent. No power. No machinery. One of the doors hangs open, half broken and creaking as it droops downwards in the wind. You can still see the area where Landon, Alaric, and yourself woke up, but it is overgrown and the scorch marks are faded. 

It is night. Something about that settles the prowling beasts within you, both Malivore and the wolf, at the sight of the moon and stars. The way they glitter above you (memories of your mother and father, of Keelin running beside you) and it almost feels relaxing. ( **CREATION)**. Oh. You never really thought of Malivore as anything other than a sentient mud pit, but you overlooked the sentient part. The moon reminds him of when he was made, you can see them now standing above him with pride on their faces, before you shove the memory away. A scoff. Any pity for Malivore is dashed below the little fact that he _killed_ you, albeit indirectly, and he also killed said creators. But there is another part of you that is glad you are not alone, and how pitiful is that? You ran from the one person who remembered you, after scaring her half to death, and are now finding comfort in your murderer. It is funny, in a twisted and macabre sort of way.

Goodbyes were said yesterday (was it yesterday? You have lost track of time), but there are still two left to be said. Maya and Samuel. Both of them helped you in different ways, even if Samuel’s advice of looking forward seems rather redundant now, you are glad to have known them. It hurts more than you thought, because they were your friends, and they will not know what happened to you. No one will, besides Lizzie. Standing at the edge of the woods, grass brushing against your now human legs, it feels almost like deja bu. Except people may actually miss you this time. A grand total of two. The others may notice you are gone, but they will not linger on it for long, a summer acquaintance leaving is not that odd (say it enough times and you may convince yourself). But it is far too late to consider turning back, too late for regrets.

This is not a guaranteed death anyways (on some level, a deeper part that you shove away violently, you wish it was- if only so you could find peace, something you do not thing you have ever truly had, not without some rush of tension just below the surface) but if every single monster you killed in Malivore could be turned against you…it might as well be. However, they will not kill you before you reach the Necromancer. Every monster here learned a lesson, one you bashed into their skulls, carved into their skin, ripped from their chest. A lesson Malivore learned. The same one the Necromancer will soon learn (as his insufferably smug gaze turns slowly to terror). Do not _fuck_ with _Hope Mikaelson_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wis: So, Lizzie and Hope had a rough conversation, assumptions on both sides that led to an escalation (doesn't help that Hope is in the middle of a breakdown and Lizzie just remembered everything the Jinn took from her). Misunderstandings are terrible, but neither of them were really thinking rationally. Please leave a comment or a critique below! Thank you to everyone who has been reading


	9. New friends (Race against time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back (in pain, but back). Thanks for sticking with this, and for all your comments. Little break from the action, but we will see the big fight next chapter.

It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth,  
That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth;  
It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give;  
There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live.  
And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win,  
Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.

Edgar Guest

“It is so good to see you again!”

Kol is grinning, ear to ear, as he sweeps Freya into a hug. Davina trails behind, laughing slightly at the disgruntled look on Freya’s face at being manhandled- which quickly turns into a scowl as Kol tousles her hair. It warms you, the kind of bursting joy that makes not smiling impossible and leaves you giggling at things barely funny. The kind of joy you only have when your entire family is in one place once more. Almost everyone, at least, except for Hope. You found her name in one of your texts, making a joke about some potion assignment the girl had. Something about having her name makes this easier, it feels like a missing piece has slot into your chest. The feelings are there, but the memories are not. Everyone else feels the same. While there is still tension, still the zeal for the search, taking a small break to relish in everyone’s company is…relaxing. 

Davina stops next to you, watching as Freya fixes her hair and chide Kol- too fondly to sound scolding-, and loops an arm through yours. Even knowing she is family, that some of the things relegated to the past are just that, the past, there is still some surprise with how tactile she is. But then, Marcel never shied away from such things. Always wanting to show just how much he cares for someone with gently, only half-aware, touches. Davina likely picked that up from him. It is nice. She tosses out a comment about Kol, one he obviously hears from the exaggerated pout shot in your direction, that makes you laugh. You pull her closer, into a half hug, and simply smile. This is what it is like to have a family, one that does not hunt each other down with the intent of murder. You only wish your brother’s were here, but you like to think that they are happy wherever they are, together. 

After the bags are carried inside, and some items are picked up after Kol dropped a bag when trying to carry too many, everyone is beginning to settle down once again. The excitement from a new arrival wearing off. Swapping stories and recent events about where everyone has been. Laughing as Keelin talks about some of little Nik’s adventures, just starting to crawl and already a trouble maker. But an adorable one, honeyed eyes and babbling voice, it makes you melt. Becoming human was something you wanted, still is to an extent, but not now…Not when everything has become great, when you finally have a family and the love of your life. It is not a sacrifice, you did not give up the one dream that drove you onwards. It was…it was a dream you held because of its difficulty to achieve. An impossibility, you had once thought. But when faced with the chance, you could not imagine a life without everyone. There is selfishness in that, in wanting to have more time with them. Being selfish is nothing to be ashamed of though, not when it comes to your family. 

Marcel’s arm slides around your shoulder’s, and he smells like chicken and some sugar is on his chin from making beignets (he always tries at these events, but for all his culinary mastery he has not been able to make one that tastes right) that you wipe away with a small chuckle. He grins at you, a devilishly handsome thing that never fails to make your heart beat faster. A swat to his arm, slightly chiding but with no real strength behind it.

“Come off it, Love.” He blinks at you innocently, but entirely false. “Not now.”

He nods obligingly and shift slightly, a softer warmth instead of the heat he was trying to stir, and Freya does not seem to notice as she continues speaking about a new grimoire she found. But Keelin is staring at you with a smirk, and the tips of your ears redden slightly under the stare but you stick your tongue out at her. A deep chuckle comes from beside you, from your husband. He says nothing, though. 

It is a soft atmosphere. Warm and full and homey. The house is far too small for all six of you, but it is nice to be shoulder to shoulder with someone, even if it can be slightly suffocating. Dinner is a pleasant affair, even as Davina ends up drooling on Kol’s shoulder (“She insisted on driving the whole way, something about me driving like a drunk goose” he said, rolling his eyes affectionately), and the food is good- although the blood was rather amusing in the wine glass. It always amuses you to drink blood out of a fancy cup…like drinking milk from a whiskey glass it just seems off in a way you can not quite put to words. But the atmosphere is broken, shattered with a simple sentence that has been on everyone’s mind but they have been avoiding. Lest the atmosphere turn into this. 

“How are we going to find Hope?” Keelin cuts straight to the point, not bothering to mince words or dance around the issue any longer. “Mystic Falls, right?”

A rather sizable part of you cringes at the thought of seeing Caroline or anyone again. It is a necessary evil though, because this is where Hope is, last you know of at least. The last few conversations on your phone are short. As if the girl was hiding something, but you never seemed to push. Maybe if you had…Maybe then she would be here, with all of you. Dwelling on that is not truly an option though. What happened, happened. If you spend too much time attempting to assign blame it will drive you mad. The only thing that can be done is to find this girl. An impossible girl. Hybrids are not meant to have children, and yet the proof stares at you through blue eyes and a smirk. An impossibility, but one you are glad for all the same. 

“That’s right.” Marcel answers, startling you out of your thoughts. “I don’t know how our visit there will be received though. Rebekah?”

“Not well.” Understatement. “It is not as if we left on the best terms. We have proof, however, of who we are searching for. Caroline may be sympathetic if someone else approaches her, she is a mother after all and was quite fond of Klaus.” 

“And Alaric?” 

“Former hunter, former vampire, and formally dead. Multiple times.” A few chuckles cross the room at your joke, death in this world, for your kind, is most often nothing more than a hindrance. At least must of the time. “He will be suspicious, and was _not_ fond of Klaus. It will bea coin flip for which one of them will prevail.” 

Keelin groans, leaning back on one of the folding chairs that had been dragged into the kitchen. 

“So, basically, we have no clue what we’re walking into.”

You shrug. There is no point in disagreeing, not when it is the truth. Davina leans forward, brows furrowing in confusion as one hand holding a fork absently pushes food around her plate. 

“I know you don’t want to Freya, but there are a few black spells that may help.”

“They won’t.” Freya sighs, a heavy sound that shows her exhaustion. “All the other spells we tried had no trace. That’s..impossible. It only acts like that if the person does not exist at all, but even that would return a result of nothing existing. This is like…Some screwed up version of Schrödinger’s cat. She’s not dead, not alive, and somehow exists and doesn’t exist.”

“A blocking spell?”

“No, no. It’s more like she just, repels magic.”

Everyone is frowning at this point. The months of searching beginning to turn into frustration and anger. The night begins to stretch onward. A night of planning and pooling together all information, double and triple checking. The sun has long since set, the room lit by orange bulbs and shadows cast over the carpeted ground. The closeness that was comforting mere hours before is now almost suffocating as voices begin to rise. The frustration being turned on each other in lieu of having any real answers. 

Freya, halfway through trying to yell over Kol, is interrupted. By a loud knock on the door. 

* * *

The car rumbles along the road, the steady thrum of the wheels against pavement providing the only respite from silence. The radio is not broken, but neither you nor Josie have reached for it yet. Content to let the tension fill the air between you, a song all of its own, and allow it to choke words from you eventually. And it will be eventually. You have never been all that good at keeping quiet (another thing you have been working on, on not wearing the boisterous and over the top mask constantly, letting yourself be uncertain instead of pushing onward and turning the fear into fuel- it is freeing) and Josie keeps stealing glances, there are questions she wants to ask and ones that she needs answers to. But not all of them should come from you. Hell, some of them you can’t answer.

Josie’s hands flex on the steering wheel. A movement often repeated to centre herself, although she usually fidgets with a bracelet or necklace. Reading your sister is easy, and comforting in a way. She doesn’t surprise you often, it is nice to know someone better than yourself (because this summer has been spent learning yourself, and you are still unsure if that succeeded) and it is predictable. She’s feeling more than a little betrayed right now, confused, and curious. But all she is going to focus on is the curiosity, the anger will come later and she does not even truly realize it is there. 

“Ask.” Josie looks over at you for a second before turning to the road (dad is so gonna kill you two for taking one of the cars) yet you still waggle your eyebrows at her and half-sing. “C’mon, you know you want to.”

“Were we…What was Hope to us?” 

Scowls, pokes, sarcasm, distant and sad looks. Josie coming in to your shared room upset after yet another rejected attempt at friendship. Yet that was not all Hope was to you, it is impossible to always be on guard. And Hope was…protective- of course, she tried to hide, it was her, but no child is ever truly subtle. Bullies turned pale and avoided you, both you and Josie, when before they would grin malevolently. Or when one of them had some very specific hallucinations that left them on the ground, and Hope looking smug. Here recently, you were beginning to move past everything and become friends (Josie doesn’t even remember lying about burning down Hope’s room, about Hope saying cruel things about you. That…that hurt. You spent years paranoid and angry over something Hope was so, so understanding about). 

You can’t tell her what she wants to hear. That everything was perfect, maybe even that the two of them were close (on some level you shudder at the thought), but the friendship was burgeoning before it was wiped away. Honestly, on some levels, Hope and everyone are closer than before. Yet there is still that barrier of her lies. It baffles you. Being forgotten is…terrifying, and to go back and face everyone for over a month, it must have been hell for her. Why didn’t she say anything? You would have helped her. It’s what friends do. As you said though, the idea probably didn’t even cross her mind. The little conversation in the quad wasn’t your best moment, but you were still right. Hope was…not doing well. You didn’t recognize it at first, too busy trying to distract yourself from the accusing stares ( _you killed your sister, murderer_ ), but when her eyes flashed- well, you’re not ashamed to say you promptly choked on your own spit. Full tribrid…she moved so fast as she stood, and from what Josie said about the fight that was nothing. Josie doesn’t know enough to draw conclusions, but for Hope to be a full tribrid now, she must have died. _Died._ Even if a person can come back, dying is not an easy thing. Landon may view death a bit…oddly, but he still understands the gravitas of it (and even he still flinches when MG moves a bit too fast). No, you do not want to be the one to tell Josie this, but answers for some things can be provided.

“We, the three of us, were friends. Of course, the stares between you two were a bit too friendly. ” Josie sputters slightly. “Now I have not one, but _two_ sets of memories about you gushing about her…I guess some things just don’t change.”

Josie pouts at you, but the tension that had been building is gone. The stress that was lining her face has lessened, and her fingers are no longer wrapped around the wheel with a death grip. It is better than seeing her and knowing that her mind is a thousand miles away, on everything that could go wrong. Just as your own is. 

“What’s the scar from?”

You’d like to know the answer to that too. But all you can offer Josie is a shrug.

“Particularly vicious weed whacker? I don’t know, she didn’t have it when she left.”

“And why do you keep flinching at odd times?” At said question, you flinch. Which only seems to make Josie frown again. This question is not one you will be answering. Not until you have a chance to talk with your mom. Josie sighs, moving off one of the off ramps of the highway. “Just…You’re okay, right?”

Yeah. Maybe. It’s…you killed your sister, or some messed up version of you did (you would rather die than do that, the thought of- just, no). Seeing it play over and over, or seeing your sister look at you with disdain instead of love, the way Hope drained someone with little care and then dropped their body like a doll. It is unsettling, and there has not been time to process. After all this, there is a likelihood you’ll have a good cry session. And talk to your therapist. But right now? Right now you can push past it (even as the angry stare of Penelope burns into you, the disgusting pity in your father’s eyes). You nod, and Josie takes a breath

“Are you ready for this?”

The only Mikaelson, besides Hope, you ever met was Niklaus. And he wasn’t exactly in the state for proper introductions. Your mother told you about him, when you asked after the fact. It’s one of the only times you had ever seen her so sad (other than sometimes, when she would look at you and Josie with an odd sort of desperation that you now understand), but she regaled you with the normal story. Of how Niklaus did some awful things, hurt and manipulated. But her voice softened, and she told you of Klaus. A sweet and kind man, who loved and felt so deeply he was not quite sure what to do with it. Someone who, even with what he had did, was one of the best people she had ever known. Or could have been. There were things she never told you, parts of the story she avoided, but Klaus sounded…impressive. Hayley, your mother did not know well and could not provide much information. Once you get Hope back, maybe she’ll tell you about her. Hope could probably use some people to talk to right now. Although, after the last time you talked, you may not be the best person to do so. Josie will no doubt help, once she rants a bit about Hope leaving. Freya Mikaelson though, is even more of an unknown than Hope’s parents. All the information you have is that she is a powerful witch. Considering her age, there has to be a lot she knows. Getting her help to go after Hope is the very least of the aid she should be able give. At the best, she may be able to bring everyone’s memory back. That…well, knowing Hope it won’t remove her internal conflict but it will make getting her back easier. 

“We’re walking into New Orleans, telling a very powerful witch that her memory has been screwed with, and then telling her she needs to come with us to save her niece. This is going to be _great_.”

Josie winces, apparently just considering what the two of you will be doing. You love her, really, but sometimes she could do with thinking things through. Not that you can say too much about that. Thinking things through, yeah you do that, but then you kinda just…do things anyway. You’re working on that. 

“She’ll understand.” She looks over at you, worry creasing her brow alongside a sudden uncertainty. “Right?”

“Yes, Josie. It’ll be fine.”

You hope.

The house you come to, one that belongs to a Keelin Malraux-Mikaelson (it’s amazing what a computer can do these days, and very worrying). It’s…quaint. Not exactly the house you thought a big powerful witch would have, but then, the castle and moat is a couple centuries outdated (…you really want a castle now). There’s a nice car outside, and you can see some shadows moving behind a curtain. Approaching the building feels like Alucard walking up to Dracul’s castle, even though the bright sun and light blue paint on the building is at odds with such an atmosphere. Josie and you share a look as the door looms in front of you.

“…Maybe this isn’t a good-“

You knock. 

* * *

“You are telling us: various monsters attacked you, nearly killed you, fought off a paramilitary group, and Hope- my missing niece- decided to go to Malivore and ended up jumping in, for a reason you’re not sure of?” Rebekah seems near overwhelmed with all the information being thrown at her when everyone has scrambled for months for barely scraps. You place a hand over hers, which is trembling slightly, and she spares a grateful glance before continuing. “And, Hope has been back for quite some time, has not contacted us, and is running off again to…what?”

“Fight the Necromancer. A, uh, necromancer?” The blonde girl, Lizzie, shrugs, looking a little on edge. “He’s not a good guy, trust us. Hope may not be able to- well, actually, maybe she could handle him alone. But she shouldn’t have to.”

Lizzie is scowling at this point, and her sister is bouncing her knee in impatience. You feel the same. Your sister, Hope, is in danger. But rushing in is foolish. Arrogance is a vice that will not have a grip on you once again, information is how you will be able to help fight this…Necromancer. These two girls do not have much in the way of knowledge on this matter, having their memories taken, and in one case only just having it returned. Coming all this way, risking angering people they have likely only heard unkind things about, it is brave. Or foolish. But the way both of them look around, not lacking fear but pushing past it and just seeking help for their friend. Either way, you respect it. Nudging Rebekah, who has been interrogating the two sisters on various things about Hope and what has been happening, she pauses as you lean forward. 

“Thank you for coming to us. We will help you.” The two girls seem to relax slightly, as if there was ever any doubt any of you would turn this down. “However, we need to know: where is this Necromancer?”

“That’s the thing…” The other sister, Josie, glances around nervously, glancing from the blank face of Keelin to the comforting one of Davina. “We don’t know.”

Kol actually groans at this, dropping his blank facade and pouting. A frown tugs at your own lips, but the easy and calm smile remains. Keep the girls relaxed, they will be liable to spill things they would not otherwise- perhaps even clues they do not realize are such. Rebekah seems to deflate slightly, and her eyes darken with disappointment. But not defeat. That spark, of fire and determination, one you fell in love with has her straightening up a moment later. Niklaus was strong, determined, and, as you once thought, unstoppable. But Rebekah stumbles at times, she makes mistakes, yet she acknowledges them and works past them. It is beautiful to see. Even if you are not soulmates (yours long dead, and her not having one), you would call her such. She does not make you a better person, but you desire to be one for her. Others, when faced with such fierceness, may feel a little unsettled. These two girls do not shrink back as Rebekah speaks though, instead the same flame of inspiration burns within them. Your sister chose her friends well. 

“But, you have an idea. Do you not.”

Not a question, but encouragement to speak. Any small hint, or clue, is useful no matter its oddity. The two girls exchange a glance, debating the worth of their information, before Lizzie speaks up. A hint of confidence, not quite the silent type of self assurance but one of a person learning to be so, behind her voice.

“Malivore. The overhyped sludge one can find in Satan’s mud baths.” Everyone, even Josie, turns to look at Lizzie. Ignoring the sheer absurdity of the sentence, the venom with which it was said was far more interesting. “What? I don’t like him. _Anyways_ , he was in Kansas. While he is very much dead, the Necromancer may be able to change that.”

The sounds rather unpleasant, especially if this Necromancer is capable of controlling a resurrected Malivore. And that is ignoring the little fact of your family being in danger. The longer you wait, the more your nerves begin to roil below your skin and teeth prick at your gums. In much the same way you can see Keelin trying not to fidget or pace, to let off excess energy. 

“You know where it is?” The girl’s barely finish nodding before Freya is on her feet. “Good, let’s go.” 

“Road trip!” Kol claps his hands together, grinning in an almost unsettling manner but Davina just rolls her eyes. “I call shotgun!” 

Freya chuckles slightly, but then eyes the girls. Suspicion warring with confusion. You missed something, something that now has Freya on edge and glancing around the house. 

“Who drove you here?”

Lizzie and Josie exchange a nervous look, one that has a stone settling into the bottom of your stomach. This will not be good news, not from the way the girls, ones who met everyone’s eyes even with fear, now look away. As if expecting the worse in your responses to whatever they are about to say (Davina wore the same look often enough when she was your ward, and it never ended well). 

“…I drove us.” Josie says, and then looks at Lizzie who is making some rather unsubtle movements for her stop talking. “And our parents will have noticed we’re gone by now.”

Lizzie groans and holds her head in her hands, muttering something you have to strain to hear: this is gonna suck. You are in agreement with her. Freya seems to be as well, murmuring a few curses in french, before looking up at the sky in exasperation. Something everyone else has on their faces as well, except Rebekah. She seems a little amused by the rebelliousness of the girls. But then, of course she would be. 

“For some reason, I have doubts the two of you are old enough to be driving alone.” Lizzie opens her mouth to protest, on principle if nothing else it seems, but Josie just hushes her a bit as Freya doesn’t truly seem to be asking a question (smart girl). “And, who, exactly, will we be having to answer to when your parents track you down?”

“Well, it’s not really that big of a deal.” Even Josie seems a tad astounded at the flippancy of her sister, one you have a feeling is false from the too casual motions. “Dad’ll be upset, but he’ll forget all about it when we bring Hope back.”

No small amount of bitterness fills her words, but it is not a fresh wound. It is an old one, picked raw over time and now said out of a routine than any true emotion. What truly grabs your attention, is that it is not just directed at Hope, but at her father. Rebekah seems to notice this as well, sharing a concerned glance with you. But it changes, turning more calculating, and then Rebekah lets out a little groan. 

“You are the twins.” Twins? Rebekah sounds near pained as she cradles her head with a hand. “You’re Caroline’s kids.” 

“…How’d you know?”

A little chuckle, it seems obvious now. But Rebekah had a slight advantage on you, spending dozens of hours pouring over the text messages. These two girls have put everyone in a rather complicated place. Alaric and Caroline will either be furious or understanding, likely both; the question is, how will they treat you. The angry messages, years old, about a lesson on Niklaus (making Hope, someone who lost her parents, lost so much, sit through a lesson where the teacher decried her father- the man she always looked up to- as if he was a beast. He was your father too, and he had his faults, but he was still family.) does not reflect kindly on Alaric. Nor does it point to a pleasant encounter. He tends to stab first and ask questions later, at least from what your wife has said. But you hope he has changed, it has been a number of years. Everyone deserves a chance (just one, if they mess it up, make sure they are not able to do so again. A rather violent lesson from Klaus, but a valuable one). Little is known about Caroline now, Hope has not met her- has gone out of her way to avoid the woman, from what you can tell- and Rebekah’s knowledge is old. And she is biased, not without reason, but it is true of everyone. Lizzie and Josie, however, are their own people. Hope seems particularly…fascinated with Josie. Although there is no small amount of admiration for Lizzie, in how the girl seems to power through everything with jokes and sarcasm- even though there are messages in anger about comments from the girl. 

“The little Mikaelson just would not shut up about you two.” Kol smirks, looking like a cat who got the cream as both girls turn piercing gazes on him. “Josie this, Lizzie that. For how adamant she was that you were not friends, she seemed pretty protective of you.”

There. Josie reaches up and fidgets with a necklace around her neck. Kol’s grin, teasing and light, was a facade. A family of sharks (one must be cautious when people turn up with a supposed way to fix everything. But then, you have been too cautious and too bold at times, it is a careful balance) and every question has a purpose. Oh, it is the truth, that Hope spoke about them often, but Kol likely wanted to ensure the twins felt the same. And it seems they do. Both flushed slightly, although Lizzie’s came with an embarrassed scowl. The necklace is not one you know, but from the small breath Rebekah nearly choked on at the sight, she recognizes it. Mikaelson’s and their emotional ineptitude. It is a fond thought, directed at your family (and you are now a Mikaelson, taking you wife’s name, and it made you near giddy). Emotional vulnerability is foreign to them, and so they use gifts. A less kind part of you calls it a mark, not of ownership but of protection. A sign that this person is under the protection of devils, as people were so fond of calling Mikaelsons. Yet it seems this girl does not fully realize or understand the gift. 

“We should go. Freya, will you ride with me? We can work on this spell.” Davina’s voice is soft, and it still makes something within you twinge with an old ache (she still has a wariness around you, something that will never go away, and it still makes you cry at times to remember how wrong everything went.). “Kol can drive, as long as he promises to avoid speeding.”

Kol gives a smirk, one that promises the exact opposite. The phrase ‘opposites attract’ could not be more true in the case of Kol and Davina, although the latter has a wicked streak as well- albeit less prominent. Keelin frowns, grumbling a bit about the fact she is staying behind, but hugs Freya all the tighter and everyone pretends they can not hear the whispered promise to return. Wolves run warmer then most (and hybrids even warmer, if Klaus is anything to go by) and you feel it as your shoulder bumps against Keelin. A small movement, reassuring her as a gentle smile crosses your lips. 

“She’ll be okay, a witch with delusions of grandeur has nothing on Freya.” 

Keelin snorts, nodding. 

“Of course she will be, I’ve seen what she can do.” A heavy sigh and a wry smile. “Doesn’t stop me from worrying though.” 

All the same, you offer what reassurances you can. Freya does not need protecting, but as her family you will watch over her. The car the two girls dove in is nice, it has the name and logo of the school stamped onto the side. It’s a miracle the two girls made it here without getting pulled ov- no, wait. There’s a rune taped to the side of the mirror on a piece of paper that you recognize as something to turn attention away. Not an easy rune by any means, it is a little sloppy but not half bad. Josie shifts past Rebekah, moving towards the drivers door. 

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Rebekah has her hands on her hips, raised eyebrow telling Josie to back away. “Your parents are already going to be displeased. Let’s not add more reasons for them to be angry, hm?”

Lizzie seems a tad reluctant to enter the car, but as Josie moves into the back seat she follows- if a little slowly. The beginning of the ride is quiet, tense and full of anxiety. It seems unreal, after this period of frantic searching and growing depression as the idea you may not find Hope took root, that now you are on your way to finding her. Rebekah seems a tad upset, you can see it in the crease of her eyes and the thinning of her lips. Hope did not come find you, instead avoiding her family. Were you not close (the very idea is abhorrent) or were you at odds (that makes you feel ill)? These are questions for when you find the girl though. Your foot presses down onto gas a bit harder. 

It seems even the tension in the car can not keep everyone awake, as Lizzie ends up snoring on her sister. Although from the sympathetic look Josie gives Lizzie it seems there may be extenuating circumstances. Josie catches you staring, and raises an eyebrow questioningly. A little movement, but a brave one. It has been some time since other supernaturals treated you with something other than fear, disdain, or a grudging respect. Refreshing, in a way. 

“You’re friends with Hope.” Not a question, but Josie nods anyways. Rebekah pretends to be ignoring your conversation and is instead faking fascination with the passing cars. “Is that all?” 

It’s amusing to see how many colours the girl can turn, from white to red with very little in between. Yet the way she glances away is curious, not out of embarrassment but with confusion and conflicting emotions on her face. Instead of answering your question, she replies with one of her own. 

“Do you have a soulmate?” 

Invasive, but not more so than your own question. Rebekah shifts slightly, no matter how much you reassure her that she is your soulmate, and the black band in the shape of fingers around your wrist means nothing, there is still a bit of worry. The answer for this question is as much for her as it is for Josie.

“Yes, but I believe them to be dead. Rebekah is the only one for me, even if I were to find my soulmate it would change nothing.” Josie frowns contemplatively. “Soulmates are not necessarily a good thing. A soulmate is what you make of it. I have seen soulmates who hate each other, some who are platonic, and others who do fall in love. But,” You look back at the road, and absently twine your fingers with Rebekah’s, “I have a feeling you are not looking for philosophy.”

“Hope…she’s my soulmate.” The frown turns into a scowl. “She knew, and didn’t tell me.”

Rebekah laughs, the sound cutting through the serious atmosphere and startling Lizzie awake. But she just grumbles and leans against the window. Rebekah seems to be having trouble breathing, and instead of looking upset Josie just looks concerned. 

“I- I’m sorry, that’s just. Talk about bloody ironic.” The laughter changes, sadder. When it tapers down there is a look in your wife’s eyes that brings concern. “Just…ask your mother why that is a little funny. But you said Hope didn’t tell you?”

“Yeah…I mean, she didn’t know I was looking for her but.” Josie huffs out a breath, searching for words that seem to escape. Rebekah waits patiently. “I could have helped. She didn’t need to do it alone.”

“Perhaps not. That does not mean she was in the correct state of mind.” You glance over at Rebekah, who squeezes your hand. “If everyone I loved forgot me, and then I found out they were still in danger. Well…it would not have gone over well.” 

“All we can do is be there for her.” Your voice is calm, even. And it seems to make Josie relax slightly. “Questions will come later. For now, we need to make sure she is well enough to answer them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikealsons meet the twins. Not much time to truly waste, once everything settles down there will be a bit more interaction and learning about each other. Side note: I have been avoiding writing Alaric and Caroline, because I am not fond of Alaric- and want to avoid bashing him- and how they've turned Caroline into an absent mother is kinda upsetting (considering all her storylines about being second best, and what she said to Klaus about picking up a phone) so I will probably write their characters as I see fit instead of what is seen in Legacies. Please leave a comment or critique below!


	10. Silence Is All We Dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: special thank you to my beta Wisdom, they've been very helpful in getting this chapter done.

Silence is all we dread.  
There's Ransom in a Voice —  
But Silence is Infinity.  
Himself have not a face.

Emily Dickinson

Drip.

(“ _I don’t want to die”_ ) Offal is spread around the grass, blood soaking the ground black when it blends with mud. What was once an overgrown clearing has become a battleground. A foot past the tree line, and the beasts began swarming. Crawling out from the forest, from the stone building. Moving towards you, in such numbers that the ground looked like a moving carpet of fur and fangs and snarls. 

Drip.

(“ _I just want my mom_ ”) All dead. By your hand. By your teeth. By your magic. Charred corpses, others with no mark on them, and then some that are no longer in a single piece. Your own clothes are torn. Matted with your own blood, but the skin below is smooth (even as your hunger begins to grow). The door looms in front of you. Inside shadowed, yet you still see. Broken concrete and rotted bodies, bearing the clothing of Triad (for some reason, you feel no sympathy for them).

Drip.

( _“You really think I’m broken?”_ ) The blood on your hands, on your mouth, is sticky and warm (delicious). It pours down your arms, clothes stained and dripping to the point it clings to you like a weight, and pools on the ground around you. Your hands are shaking, actually your entire body is trembling slightly. It is realized, categorized, and then ignored. Just as every other wound (claw to the leg, bite to the arm, tail-thing to the chest which definitely crushed some bones), was recognized and shoved away. The pain fades, quicker than you would have thought, and it just feels…numb. Not as if there is nothing there, but as if one has placed ice against your skin for too long (you try not to think too much on how the room tilts slightly even as you stand still). 

You step into the building.

It is cold. It is dark. It feels as if you are walking into a tomb. 

One foot after another. 

It seems slow. Calm. Yet on edge. Every little sound has you looking around. It has the feeling of being empty, yet there are hundreds of eyes on you. Hundreds of shadows moving, shifting, crawling (are they there? Is this in your mind?). The one sound that stands out, the one that you follow with a singleminded determination (and one noise that reaches through the silent is the low growl that rumbles in your chest), the sound that echoes off the wall is a high whistling noise. 

It is not rhythmic, or pretty. It is a high screeching noise that only barely resembles a whistle. Not an untrained noise, but from someone attempting to be as off-putting as possible. A cheap trick (one unusually effective). One that seems on brand for a monster who insists on people using an article in front of his name. It may be difficult to pinpoint, to find the exact location, but the one thing you know is that you have to go farther in. 

Light. Sudden, blinding, light. Your hand shoots up, covering your sensitive eyes. For a moment all you see is light interspersed with shadows and the blur of movement. Before it calms, and your eyes adjust to the room. It is a familiar one. Not one you ever wanted to see again (nausea creeps up your throat, the acrid taste burning on its path). It looks much the same as when you woke (in the forest nearby, and the spot where you woke is now likely covered with blood.), and moved to verify Malivore’s demise. You stood over the pit then, still half-believing this to be a dream with a hand wrapped around your throat as it throbbed with a phantom ache, and stared at the scar where Malivore was. A deep gouge in the pit, one that felt- feels- _wrong_ even though it was nothing more than your own imagination. 

Yet where the pit was once empty, it is now filled with blood. And the smell. It is…fuck, it’s _awful._ It does not smell like fresh blood, it smells fetid and sick, only reinforced by the colour. Black as pitch. While those things only unsettle you, what is worse are the _things_ wriggling and writhing in it. Formless for one minute before taking on shapes the next, only to splash back into the liquid once more. It is only once one of them, half formed and covered in the chunky and rotten blood, drags themself from the pit and hisses that you realize what it happening. 

The monsters. They have to come from somewhere. Mnemosyne told you “ _You went through so many, but the pit was destroyed._ ” (you lost count of how many you fought in the dark, but seeing the numbers of them curling below you, it is far more than you had thought). You were released. What about the other monsters, the bodies and the live ones. He, the Necromancer, sent Mnemosyne after you not as some sort of mockery but because she was the one he could control, all of the dead are. Pain. A splitting headache forms as Malivore begins feeding you information on every single monster that crosses your gaze. Like having a terabyte of memories downloaded onto a space far too small. You look away, if only for a respite from the pain.

Standing where you did, where you looked over at the pit as a phone was held in your trembling fingers, is the Necromancer. He looks much the same as he did all those months ago, in the basement. Same dark clothes, same rotting and disgusting face. And you know the if you were to approach, you would see rotting teeth and smell the decay on his breath. Yet there is no weakness in his posture as he leans against a pillar, making a large sweeping gesture. 

“It is rude to keep one waiting, but I thank you for finally deigning to arrive.” Smug. That’s the only word you can use to describe the lilt of his voice, and it is infuriating. Whatever anger had faded as you trekked through the building is quickly replenished. He notices, you see it in the slight uptick to his mouth. “It’s been a while, how have you been? Looking a little rough there.”

“Still looking better than your moldy ass.” He actually frowns at that, arrogance means there are buttons you can push. Only for a moment though, as he brushes his hand against his shoulder before turning his back to you; a demonstration of just how much of a threat he views you to be. It is insulting. But advantageous. “What’s up with your discount blood pit?”

“Hm? Oh, that, yes…Bringing back the monsters was interesting. They required more attention than most of my creations, and I found this rather…poetic, no?”

“Sure.” You tense. Civility is beginning to grow old. But there are a few things you have to know. “Why?”

The Necromancer rolls his eyes, looking over his shoulder with a chiding stare that is more than a little condescending. Huffing, he turns around and places a hand on the railing next to him. Then he begins speaking in that scratchy voice, a voice that you still believe should not come from a living being. 

“Why? What do you mean? Specificity, Little Mikaelson, is integral.” A pause, and he looks at you, in a way that makes your skin crawl. It is filled with interest, the kind of interest one has when pulling apart something to work out how it moves. Or the kind of curiosity when faced with a particularly intelligent monkey. “But I assume you mean ‘why’ in reference to this whole escapade. With the monsters, and whatnot. It’s quite simple.” He grins, a rotted thing not only in the teeth and skin that shows but in the emotion behind it. A cruel and insane smile (it is almost familiar, you wore it when fighting the monsters earlier). “Power. Yes, yes. What an utter _cliche,_ but it remains true. Things will be changing here soon, there are now monsters roaming the earth that have not been seen in centuries. Power is how one will survive in the coming years, because change is coming. It may be a slow change, and it is one that was going to happen no matter what with the advance of technology, but change will prove to be the death of some.” The gaze he fixes you with is hard. All traces of humor gone. “It will not be my end.”

No. It will not be his end. Because he will not live long enough to see that change, his death will be at your hands. The monsters he mentioned, that are now roaming the earth…it fits with some of what Malivore has told you. However, he avoided your question.

“Nice monologue. Nine out of ten on delivery, five out of ten on content though. You didn’t answer my question. Might want to do that, or this conversation will end really quick.”

“You’re about a thousand years too young to be threatening me, child.” You growl, claws and fangs coming out. “Calm down, bloody hell, all of you Mikaelsons are so dramatic-“ really? He, Mr. _The_ Necromancer, is calling you dramatic? Bastard. “-Malivore. That is what it comes down to. I control Malivore, I can capture and control the monsters. Again, power. If he had truly died, it would have been _so_ much easier. But you,” He waggles a finger in your direction, “must have had some little sliver of him inside you when he went kaput. And that little sliver was enough for him to latch on.” The bullet. The one you blocked (although you were too slow then to move Josie out of the way entirely, but you are stronger now). It must be what he is referring to. “So, I need you dead and then Malivore can be brought back and controlled.”

Hm. Too bad for him that he will be dead soon. The information is almost absurd, yet just enough so that you can believe it. Even if it is not true, he seems to believe it. That is enough. Time for discussion is over. He seems to notice that, sighing and shifting slighting. 

“I take it you won’t just fall on your sword? You did it once before, it would not be so difficult. I promise to make it painless.”

“And I promise to make you suffer.”

* * *

You’re out of the car before it comes to a full stop, most everyone except Marcel and Kol are right behind you- those two actually having to turn the car off. Everyone looks at each other, as if having difficulty in believing you finally made it (after more than a dozen, literal, wrong turns). It is determination that fills everyone’s eyes. Near palpable in its intensity. Only slightly dampened by the fact Davina and Freya are arguing about Ancient Greek conjugations for the spell they’ve been building. And when everyone moves towards the building, there is another pause. But this time it is one of horror.

What you thought was mud, or maybe clay, is blood. And intestines. And…oh god, is that a _heart_? Lizzie throws up, and you are not too far behind as the acid burns at your throat and makes your eyes water. For all the blood, and chunks of bodies, there are only a few whole bodies. Instead there is a thin layer of dust in places, just as with Mnemosyne. Hope did this. It is a hard thought, one that rattles around your head and bounces off of denials. Even the Mikaelsons looks a little unsettled, but not disgusted, no they have seen too much (done too much), to truly be fazed. There is a question though, that is in everyone’s head. One that sits in the air, unvoiced, and no one wants to truly acknowledge.

“She’s not dead.” Lizzie’s voice is hoarse, and she wipes her mouth. Her eyes are focused on the building, but they drift back to the bodies every so often. “She’s- This is nothing…Let’s go.”

There is knowledge in that sentence, experience, as if Lizzie has seen this before (have you? Is this another memory that was taken?). That this could have been done before, that your twin saw such a massacre before, is horrifying. Almost more so is the thought of Hope doing it, the sweet girl that loved puns and silly cat pictures- even if she tried to deny it- (but there were moments, when she would blink and instead of kindness there was a glimpse of something hard. Of something uncompromising. It…it did not scare you, never that, but it worried you). Still, if she is in danger you can not pause. As Marcel said, there will be time afterwards for such things. You can only hope such a time does come (the alternative…it is inconceivable).

Across the field. Carefully watching each step. The adults are less careful, instead looking around and watching for anything, and occasionally there will be a squelch as one of them step on…things you would rather not think about. The burn in your throat is still there, but you are desperately ignoring it. Rebekah pauses, bending down to pick a bloody something up.

“Cloth.” 

It is stained and torn, but you recognize the fabric. It’s a part of Hope’s scarf, one of them at least. Rebekah seems to realize that this could belong to none other than her niece, and she pauses, an emotion on her face that you can’t quite describe, and then she starts walking once again. Freya and Davina have abandoned their discussion, instead moving to either side of you and Lizzie while the three vampires take the lead. Freya taps you on the arm, and just as with Hope you can feel energy coursing below her skin- as strong as Hope’s, it may not call to you in the same way but it seems more…controlled. She’s looking at you, and you realized you ignored her question.

“I’m ready.” A shaky smile, an attempt to reassure yourself as much as her. “This isn’t my first fight.”

Instead of reassuring the woman, there is a sad crease to her eyes. It was a long shot. There is no true way you know what you would be walking into, and there is no true way to prepare. In the end, the adults will have the best position to respond to any attacks (which is…refreshing). Concrete looms in front of you, the doors wide open and blood pools at the entrance, before moving inwards. It is dark, you can not see anything within the building. Shadowed. The three vampires share a glance, eyes already changed. Kol moves to speak, a slight smirk on his face that you recognize from Lizzie as being nothing but trouble. Then-

A deep, _guttural_ , roar _._

A pained, _angry_ , scream.

You run. Into the dark, and even though there are turns and twists and walls all blanketed in darkness you can not see through, you know where to go. The noise echoes, bouncing off the walls. For a moment, you get turned around. The confidence that was in your stride is gone, and now you are left turning in the dark for some hint of where to go. A hand wraps around your arm. You lash out. Instinctively drawing magic from the person touching you and preparing a spell before-

“It’s Rebekah.”

You relax. The power, what all Mikaelsons feel like you think, that swirls under her skin confirms it. She pulls you, fingers a little too tight for comfort (unlike the way Hope hovered, grip firm but careful), down one of the hallways. And then turns down another. Until light begins to creep down it, straining to reach further into the shadows before petering out. With the light comes noise. A wet and heavy slap of fabric soaked with water- or blood- being tossed to the ground. Some shuffles over to what you assume is a wall, the scrape of concrete audible as they lean against it. Other than that, the room is empty. Whatever battle you had heard (the sound of someone being ripped apart, dying in agony) is over. And you are afraid to see who has been left standing. 

* * *

He cowers behind monsters. Replenished faster than you can defeat them, and it is wave after wave of monster. And the only thing that allows you to keep track of how long it has been, is when you face the first monster once again. A never ending cycle. But where they do not tire, even as the ground becomes slick with blood and body parts, you do. This is not Malivore (and it is almost funny, how you know long for the place where you did not tire- even if it is only slightly) and exhaustion is beginning to set in. Alongside the pain from more wounds than you can count, instead of mere tears the fabric is now nothing more than shredded scraps. Covered in parts and your own blood now mingles in it. 

**(NOW)**. It is not a smile that stretches across your face, if it would be called such it would only be due to it using the same muscles, it is far too cruel and vicious for such a title. It is a snarl, a victorious one. The time you had been bidding, every single fight, allowed Malivore to pull on your own magic (and you ignore the way such a thing makes you feel) and gather his strength. You could put the monsters down. And you did so, over and over and over. But Malivore can help ensure that they _stay_ down. As his voice echoes in your skull, loud and deep inthe way that makes your teeth rattle, you move. The speed is still a surprise, one that almost shocked you out of your haze back in the park, yet it is thrilling. Before you were a full tribrid, you were still faster than a human, stronger too, but it is nothing compared to now. 

You are distantly aware of the Necromancer yelling, orders and trying to cast spells at you (Which Malivore uses to gather more power). But you continue to move. The first monster you reach snarls, and you know that it will flick its left leg out in the move it likes so much. Yet it does not get to do so as you plunge your hand into its chest. Bones break, shards shredding the flesh of the monster and that of your arm. The flesh, warm and sticky and stringy, parts beneath your hand. Coming to grasp at the rapidly beating heart and then _squeezing_. Malivore goes to work. With Mnemosyne, you did not have the time to appreciate just what it is he does. It is rather slow, for…is it a spell? Perhaps not. But it worms its way through the monsters body, locking up the muscles and racing through the blood. Searching every aspect of its being. And then it begins to tear. Ripping every single part of the monster into shreds, destroying it atom by atom. Painful, you would imagine, but, even slow as it is, it is quicker than you tearing the beast apart. Yet as it dies, Malivore pulls a part of it in. Not like he would have previously, this is merely…the energy. It invigorates you, and you feel stronger than before. 

The other monsters have paused, as the Necromancer has, and is examining you. Trying to work out how you turned their comrade to dust. He’s muttering, the Necromancer, about how he can feel the monster. It takes a moment for realization to hit- although he no doubt comes to a semi-wrong conclusion, it took Malivore being in your head to fully understand it. And then he sends the monsters at you, all at once. Instead of the singular fights that he was using as a source of amusement. It is an attempt to overwhelm you, to crush you below the numbers. It is an attempt that fails.

Each monster crumbles below your hands, and you ignore the cuts that come as you stand still to destroy one. They heal as soon as you absorb the energy. Malivore is buzzing, something like excitement or satisfaction, and you can feel it thrumming through you. Trying to differentiate between what is his feelings and yours is impossible, so you instead focus on the Necromancer. Who is looking for escape, looking at the door behind you, and seeing that it would be more than a little difficult to reach, he turns a charming smile on you. One that is twice as slimy as a slug. 

“Good game there, Little Mikaelson. No hard feelings, right?” He chuckles, a slightly shaky sound compared to earlier. “What’s a little attempted murder between friends?”

You continue to strut forward. A slow and lazy walk. You have all the time in the world, there are no more monsters to come, and the ground is slick with blood and ash. It is almost a carpet, one that splashes every time your foot comes down. With every step, the fear and panic in the eyes of the Necromancer grows. His stance, one of false relaxation, fades into frantic panic as he begins moving towards you, reading a spell to try and move past. It comes at you, black edged with red and even if you wanted to dodge it was too fast. The thing hits you square in the chest, and for a moment it feels like your blood is on fire. Like you are being destroyed from the inside out. But it stops abruptly. And the Necromancer moved too close in his haste. Your hand lashes out, wrapping around his throat. It feels like rotting flesh, bloated and cold and slimy, yet you hold tight. 

“You made a mistake going after Josie once. But then you showed your face a second time, and went after my friends.” If he could pale, you like to think he would. The fear is almost palpable. “There is only one fate for those who hurt _my_ people.”

He sputters as your hand closes around his neck, clawing at your arm ineffectively. In his panic, he misses your other hand moving. At least until it forces its way into his chest. Unlike the others, his body is cold. Blood is thick and gooey, the flesh is full of holes, and the heart is just a still muscle. The only reason he is alive is because of his magic. His power. He looks at you fearfully, and searches your eyes for something like kindness or pity. There is none. Something like resignation fills his gaze. Then you rip. Pull the magic from him forcefully, making it as painful and slow as possible. It feels like poison. You roar as it floods your veins, quieting as Malivore takes it and purges it. The Necromancer screams. His throat moving even with your tight grasp and you can feel the muscles shredding as he forces his voice, his pain, through. 

He dies. And the room is quiet.

It is over (is it? You thought that once before and this happened. There is no peace. No calm.) for now. And you are alive- for various definitions of the meaning. You lean against the wall, exhaustion and pain creeping up on you. It is odd. You had expected to end this in the same way as with Malivore should have gone, with you and the monster dead. Yet you stand here, with no visible wounds. There is a part of you that slows, that does nothing but breathe. And another that rushes ahead, what shall you do now? Go back to Mystic Falls? No, not after the fight. It should be safe for them now, they has no use for you. Perhaps you will go to New Orleans, check on Freya and Keelin and little Nik- then track down the rest of your family. Just to see if they are okay. 

But for now, you just want to sleep. Sleep without looking over your shoulder. ( **INTERLOPER).** Malivore’s voice jerks you from the haze that was just beginning to drift over you, the first semblance of relaxation you had in a long time, and it has fear gripping your heart once more. All the monster’s should be dead. You did not take in the Necromancer’s magic, you destroyed it (you did not want such a poisonous magic within yourself), and all creatures imbued with it should have fallen. But there are still footsteps coming towards you. You shuffle upright, the blood-soaked fabric of your jeans crunching slightly with the movement, and take a slightly woozy fighting stance. Whatever it is, it will regret coming here. 

For all the things you had been prepared to see turn the corner, all the monsters or even Triad, the one thing you had not bet on was Aunt Rebekah. Followed closely by Josie. The two stare at you. And you at them (is this real? Or have you finally lost it?). Josie steps forward and you flinch, a growl thundering in your chest instinctively (this is not her. She is safe in Mystic Falls. She does not know you. This is not Josie- yet, it looks like her). Perhaps the Necromancer has some other trick up his sleeve. Maybe it was not him you killed. He is slippery. 

“Is this some kind of trick, Necromancer?” The two look confused, although the Rebekah look-alike seems worried. That’s where he messed up. It is perhaps plausible that Lizzie dragged Josie here, but Aunt Rebekah would not know you. “It is one you will regret. I will make your death slow, torture you to the brink of death and then heal you with my blood. Only to do it over again. It will last until you are nothing more than a gibbering mess.”

“ _Hope_ …”

It is not real, yet even as you chant that like a mantra (a plea- Josie can not be hear, you kept her safe, you kept your family safe. _You were strong enough this time!_ ), hearing your name in Josie’s voice is like a punch to the stomach. (“ _Hope!”_ Such anger, and fear, it still haunts you). You shake your head, a violent movement that is near painful and the world blurs with it. No, no. This is false. Remember that. Josie should be at the Salvatore school, and Rebekah is with Marcel somewhere in Europe (she wanted a teaching degree, right? Something about enjoying the time she spent with you as a child and wanting to do so with others. Did that change when her memories were taken?).

“Hope Mikaelson, look at me.” You are (even with a mockery of Josie, your eyes are still pulled to her). Her eyes burn with frustration, but the pull at her lips is one of worry and fear (at you or for you?). “We are here. You are safe.”

( **TRUTH** ). That word, resonating in your bones, Malivore’s confirmation that he sees no trap or magic from the Necromancer on them. It sends you to the ground. Where the pain and exhaustion set in slowly mere moments ago, everything hits you like a train. They are here. There are…no, no danger is here, but it is complicated. Do they remember? Or did Lizzie tell them? Either way, you do not fight as Rebekah kneels beside you and takes one of your hands in her own. She looks at you (what does she see? Is she disappointed?) and smiles.

“I’m glad we found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: I know this may seem a little...anti-climatic, but the focus was never on the fight or monsters. Hope, with Malivore's help, is so far above them and the Necromancer that it isn't funny (but she does have weaknesses, as we will see in a future chapter). Now we can move on to the next arc, focusing on healing and reuniting with family. Please leave a comment or critique below, thank you!


	11. Memories...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: So, chapters will be coming slower due to a number of things going on this month (this chapter was already a little late, apologies). And while I have stuff prewritten, I don't want to run out before I can get back to writing so it may be a chapter every other week instead of every week.

“Cowards die many times before their deaths;  
The valiant never taste of death but once.  
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,  
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;  
Seeing that death, a necessary end,  
Will come when it will come.”

William Shakespeare, _Julius Ceaser_

Branches whip past, clawing at you and leaving bloody trails that will only make it easier to hunt you down. You stumble, the ache in your leg making the muscles seize, but you do not pause. Instead forcing the tight leg to move and more tears begin to wind their way down your cheeks with the pain. Even moving as fast as possible, a frantic pace that has left your feet bleeding, the sound of _it_ following has only grown louder over the passing hours. And with each hour, the terrible, hysterical, realization that there is no escape sinks deeper in. Desperation and fear are powerful motivators, but you are still weak. Still not strong enough. Combat was never your forte, it was never meant to be, you were meant to help and heal. But only from the shadows. Discovery would be a death sentence, no matter the aid you provided the humans (and there is a bitter part of you, one that wants to twist memories instead of unraveling them and force people to suffer, but that is not who you are- dark thoughts do not define a person, only if they act on such does it reflect on them). Yet no matter the good you have done, you are not human. That is what will lead to your ruin- because it will be ruin, you are not young or foolish enough to believe otherwise, even if you are still hopeful enough to try and run. 

Your children were taken. One by one. You could feel it, you were connected to them. And you felt them be snuffed out, their beautiful lights being destroyed. This beast hunting you, it has already failed, because nothing could hurt as much as reaching for a soul that has always been beside you and finding nothing but _emptiness_. You sob. The noise is loud and no doubt only draws the monster closer. But it is not something you can hold back in the face of your grief clawing and tearing at you like a feral wolf, raw and infected and _agonizing_. They are gone. You are alone. But soon, soon you will join them (and that thought is almost enough to bring you to a halt, the want to reunite with your children strong, but they would not want that for you. So you keep running). 

You stumble once more after a period of time, you have long since lost track, and this time you fall. And you do not get back up. Crying, choking breaths and thoughts of _whywhywhy_ , and the monster approaches you without care. Grass and branches snap beneath its feet but it is a muted noise, and you look up at the twisted mockery of a face that glares down at you with hunger, not hatred for that is too complex, and there is nothing like pity or sadness in its gaze. You see exasperation, even if it is not there, in the crease of its brow. With a broken body and bleeding heart, you stand and look at the beast. It will kill you no matter what, but it will not do so as you crawl in the dirt. There is pain, as it begins to consume you, but the thought you shall soon see your family is comforting. 

You do not see them. There is nothing but darkness. 

You wander, endlessly walking and running and searching for someone, anyone, but you are alone. Magic does not work here, you can not see nor can you hear anything. Not even your own breathing. Silence, in the world you knew, always had a sound. Be it the beating of your own heart, the rush of blood, or even a ringing from the emptiness. But here? Here there is _nothing_. It is such an absence that it is physically painful. There are hours (days?) where you can not walk but instead curl into a ball on a ground you can see and cry. Screaming yourself raw so you can hear something, and the taste of blood turns your screams into a pained gurgle as your throat shreds itself. You sing after that, speaking into the darkness and reciting songs you learned over the course of centuries, but that runs out in time too. And the silence seeps back in.

The darkness or the silence, you can not decide which is worse? There is a special kind of madness in being able to see more colours when your eyes are closed than when they are open, and not truly knowing where you are moving as the only tell is your feet pounding against a floor of some kind that is far too smooth and slick to be natural (are you even moving, or is it just a trick?). But the silence…the silence is a reminder of everything you have lost. The voices of your children, laughing and lyrical, are gone and you will not be seeing them again. Hope, what you had clung to so desperately the first few moments during your death and in darkness, has long since faded into bitterness and anguish. 

Madness is such a quaint word. Not explainable to one who has not experienced this. Silence, Silence, Siiiillleeeence- such an odd little thing that falls short in applying to this. Words lose meaning after a time of repeating them only to yourself. The day you realize your family must be here as well, trapped and going mad as they are alone, that is another screaming day as you have come to call it. It may last a day, it may last longer, there is no such thing as time here. Walking is less of a search for escape (there is no such thing) but it keeps you occupied. For all your madness, the grasping tendrils stealing away who you were and leaving nothing but an empty and bitter husk, you know that to stop would be to give up entirely.

The faces are gone. Your family, you can no longer remember how they looked, how they sounded. Erato’s poetry, or Thalia’s plays, you no longer remember them. It is just…blank. Memories fade with time, you would know after all, but…it still hurts (and it is some of the first hurt you have felt in a long time, something other than the anger and sadness). This realization, you know now, is what broke you. What drove you truly from the helpful and kind woman into something _twisted_. All you can do, is fall to the ground. Black like a shroud of mourning for a family you do not know if they are dead or not (you almost hope they are, if only to escape this, you tried to die but you could not). 

You cry. 

You scream.

* * *

You wake with a scream strangled in your throat, raw and painful. For a single moment, you do not know where, or who, you are. A terrifying moment in which Mnemosyne’s memories fight for power, the pain and misery thudding in your chest, before you wrest it into a corner. Sweat drips down your forehead, your hands are shaking, and there is the crushing feeling in your chest that makes it hard to breathe. It jumps around, at times breathing too shallow and then too deep. But worse than that is remembering. Magic has a cost, it always has a cost. That is a lesson you have learned over and over. Yet you did not consider it when using Malivore. So now you suffer the consequences. The monster’s memories are not your own, there is a disconnect between them emotionally. Except when the emotions are too strong, then they overflow. You remember it all…All the deaths, you remember dying by your own hand. Not only the feel of your fist digging into their flesh, but of a fist tearing through your chest. A cost. Ironic, almost, that you no longer dream of your own death but of other’s. Almost worse than the deaths is seeing yourself, the dark glee and cruelty in your eyes (is it cruelty though? You killed them because they hurt your friends, but they would have died alongside the Necromancer anyways as he lost his magic, and you tried to make it quick), it is odd to see yourself through another’s eyes. It is hard to try and justify your actions when you can feel their pain, their terror. But you know better, you had to survive. Or at least, you wanted to, and so you can not truly bring yourself to feel regret. Guilt, however, is another matter entirely. 

Where are you? Your panic quickly shifts, finding a more imminent focus. The last thing you remember was…( _“I’m glad we found you”)_ seeing Aunt Bekah and Josie. Was that a hallucination? On some level, you hope it is. Because you do not know how to face them, in fact you would almost rather a fight. The room is familiar, and it takes a few seconds to fully recognize it. If only because it has been a while since you saw it. New Orleans. You’re in New Orleans, in Keelin and Freya’s house. Repeating it doesn’t really make it feel any more real. Why here? Why not back to Mystic falls? Although, you are almost glad they chose New Orleans over Mystic Falls, if only so you can avoid Alaric. God, that meeting is going to _suck_. You shake your head, a jarring motion, stalling is not going to help for long. Facing the facts, what is likely to happen, will make it easier (when they look at you with disappointment). A knock. Loud and hard. You’re shifted and off the bed before you truly realize it. The door opens. Marcel stands there, a tray of food in his hands, and he looks just as you remember. A small smile, gentle and calming, is on his face. He is careful, moving forward slowly and ensuring that you do not seem uncomfortable. And you are, slightly. Still standing with claws and fangs out, although you are beginning to fight them back (why is it always so hard to do so?). He doesn’t speak, not at first, although he does sit on the bed and look at you. As if searching for something. 

“Rebekah and Kol cooked, they went a little overboard…If you want more food, there’s practically a feast downstairs.” 

No questions. No badgering. Not what you expected. He seems content to sit there, setting the tray of food away from him. It is careful, his words and his posture, because he is treating you as if you are half feral. There is a part of you offended by that, but a larger part realizes that you are covered in sweat, still half changed, and watching every move like he will attack. Perhaps he is right to treat you like that. But it is not out of any worry for himself, Marcel liked to appear selfish but there was the same core of kindness your father had. They are so similar, and it…on some level you envy your brother. Because he had decades with your father. It is irrational, especially with what you know of their history that it was not always good, but it is still there. Yet you love him too. Marcel was kind, and yet he never coddled you. He was so willing to indulge you, engage in mischief. And after your parents- after everything that happened, he helped. Freya, Rebekah, Keelin, and Kol, they were all there for you and it was good, but your brother understood. He had lost his father too. But he does not have those memories. Facing everyone in Mystic Falls _hurt_ but this…this is miserable. Marcel is not to blame though, and you can not treat him as if it his fault that you want nothing more for him to hug you like he used to and call you his little sister. That will not happen though, and so you turn your focus to other things. 

“Is everyone okay?”

His brow furrows, looking at you with something like incredulity and exasperation. 

“That is your worry? What am I saying, of course it is.” He huffs, and that small smile is back. “No one was harmed.”

“That’s not what I asked.” You know they were not hurt, everything you did was to ensure that. But a physical wound is not the only damage that can be done. Josie and Lizzie walked into a battleground, all the blood and gore, and that is not something people tend to walk away from without some worries. And your family, they had left behind all the fighting and bloodshed, yet they were faced with it again, it likely brought back unpleasant memories. “Are they okay?”

His smile fades, a more somber look taking over and it is one that makes you worried. Even if it was expected. 

“Lizzie seems to be having some sort of crisis, and Josie was…perturbed by your appearance and actions. Rebekah is glad to have you back, and Davina is working on a spell reversal with Freya. Kol is doing fine, rather proud of your ‘battle prowess’ as he put it.”

Sounds like him. Kol has gotten better over the years, but there is still a viciousness that hasn’t been curbed. It makes sense that Josie was upset. You saw yourself, through the eyes of the monsters as you killed them over and over and steadily grew more bloody and more feral. It was not a pretty sight. But it hurts, another irrationality. Josie only knows you as the girl who worked at the coffee shop and was a liar. She knows more now, with what Lizzie has no doubt told her, but to know and then to see are two different things. You knew your father was seen as a bad man, but when you saw him in that living room it was…you had nightmares for weeks (not scared of him for your own health, never, but of what could happen to him and what could be done to others). That pain is only slightly tempered by what Marcel told you of Aunt Bekah. She is _glad_ to have you back, even without her memories. Rebekah is a good woman, no matter what others may think, and there has always been a softness, it should not surprise you she is happy to have another family member back- even if it is one she does not remember- but it does (because why would anyone be happy with you? Your parents died because of you, you have killed, you ran, you lied, there are so many faults that it is impossible to list. It is almost a relief to know Lizzie and Josie are not pleased with you, because that is _safe,_ you can deal with that).

“How long have I been out?”

“Three days, you used far too much magic and needed to recover, you probably noticed the pain-“ you hadn’t, actually, but now that he mentions it you can feel the pit in your chest that comes from pulling too much- “and it should fade soon.”

Finally, slowly, you move over to beside Marcel on the bed. Eating the food that had been calling for you, a desperate sort of hunger you have not felt since your first week out of Malivore, when you had to scrounge for food (not yet completely comfortable with drinking from animals). Your brother is still, not wanting to scare you off, but he slowly relaxes; of course, only your experience with him allowed you to see the subtle movements that expressed his stress. He begins to explain what happened after you passed out (“ _It’s a damn miracle you were still standing when Rebekah and Josie found you, you were nearly dead from blood loss and exhaustion.”_ ) and how they took you back to New Orleans. Lizzie and Josie are still here, much to Alaric’s apparent anger but they refused to leave (and you are not looking forward to the lecture no doubt in your future from them) and they reached a compromise. Apparently a compromise means he won’t come to New Orleans- and anger the entire supernatural population with the Hunter’s presence- but Caroline will. You’ve managed to avoid her for the most part, and a part of you is debating hiding in your room the entire time she is here, but not for much longer. The woman your father loved, who he was willing to do anything for (and you envied that, the kind of bottomless love and acceptance he had, the fragile sort of care that was in his eyes when he thought of her), and she turned away from him. Now she is coming to the house where your family is, where Rebekah is (and you know your anger towards her is not fully deserved, but there…your father just wanted happiness. Why could he not have it?) and it is likely not going to end well. 

“Are they waiting for me?”

Marcel opens his mouth, a lie on the tip of his tongue, but he sighs, and looks away from you. Before turning back and you know he is going to be honest, he never did enjoy lying to family. 

“Yes. But,” He holds your gaze, a burning determination and care that has never failed to reassure you. It is nice to see it, even when he does not know you. But all he knows is that you are his sister, it is an obligation. Mikaelsons always have an obligation to family (even when they try to kill you). “you don’t owe them anything. You can come down when ready. The only thing I ask is that you don’t run.”

And you look away, you had planned on doing just that. Climbing out the window and dropping down, running to where they could not find you. But it would be unfair. It would be selfish. But most of all, it would hurt your family. Despite you leaving, running off (to die), you did not wish for them to hurt. You kept your existence secret so that they would not, so that they would not feel forced to look at you and act as if they know you (as if they care for you), or to suffer from the way you look at them. With memories in your eyes that they don’t have. No, that is not what you wanted for them. But it was also more than that. You did not want them to look at you like a stranger. Even now, with all the kindness in Marcel’s eyes, your brother does not know you. Pain is something you have grown used to, every time Alaric compared you to your father (instead of seeing _you_ he saw a monster- and was he even wrong?), every time you woke up to remember your parents are dead (because of you), every single fucking time you looked at Josie and pretended she wasn’t your soulmate because imagine the disappointment she would have. Pain is as familiar as any of your friends, more so now. However, leaving would cause them pain. You? You can live with hurting, better you than them, and your friends, your family, do not need another reason to be hurt. So, you will not run. You will look them in the eyes (as they berate you, as they no doubt call you a liar, as Josie and Lizzie look at you like they’ve seen a monster) and you will stay. 

Because you love them. 

Such a simple sentence, such a short word, Love. All those years you have spent blocking yourself off, pushing people away to try and protect yourself. Even with your family, you were distant. Yet you _can’t_ anymore. After Malivore, after the Necromancer, you refuse to be the same coward with your emotions. Deciding that does not make it easier though, and today is going to be hard. You do not know what will happen, if you will be allowed back to Mystic Falls, if you will be turned away, if you will be forced to make a new life. But you can take comfort in being honest with yourself, or at least _trying_ to be (because there are still things you do not want to acknowledge, things that you relegate to the darkest corners of your mind, but isn’t acknowledging your inability to process them at the moment a sort of honesty?). 

“I promise I won’t run.” Marcel nods, he reaches out and grasps your shoulder. It is almost foreign, after months of barely any human contact. Even with your friends, your unconscious touches, they were short. But Marcel was never one to shy from touch, and it is…god, it’s frankly embarrassing how comforting it is. There is still the instinctive flinch, the expectation of pain. It is ignored. “Just, tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

He nods, and leaves the room quietly. The door closes behind him with a click, and the bed is lighter than before, the dip in it where he sat no longer pulling downwards. Time to think. You are disgusted that your first thought is still to run, but you made a promise. To stay still, and to face whatever comes. You are shaking, and is it excitement or fear? Both, most likely. Excitement that you finally get to see your family after months, see Josie and Lizzie and reassure yourself of their safety (and even if they make you leave, you will be going to Mystic Falls to check on everyone). Fear of their reactions. It is hard not to expect the worse when that is all you have seen for so long. Prepare for the worst, and if it does not come to pass then you shall be pleasantly surprised. Words to live by. 

Maybe you could soften the blow. Offer up the information that they may be seeing more supernaturals running amok that has escaped from Malivore (and the bastard refuses to give you a list, something about wanting some excitement). But this is the extent of what you can offer. They no longer need protection from a beast targeting them, they do not need a monster magnet like you coming around, and…they were happy. You saw Josie’s face, fear and sadness, as she held her sister. That was your fault. But you have spent enough time deliberating. There is no true way to plan for what could come, only to go and face it. 

* * *

They’re all in the living room. Kol is sprawled on the ground beside Davina’s chair, Josie and Lizzie are sharing one, Freya and Keelin are half in each other’s lap, whispering, and Rebekah is standing, staring straight at you with something like disbelief. As if she is still not sure you exist. It’s crowded, and tense, and the urge to run is only growing stronger as the room falls completely silent and everyone stares at you. Marcel is standing off to the side, a steady presence, and he nods at you- a show of support and encouragement. Still, what do you do? 

“…I’m not dead.” Not that. _‘I’m not dead’?_ Seriously…Great job. Mikealson charm is a _lie_. Even Lizzie facepalms, a tad rude but entirely deserved. At least it seems to break the tension. “So, what do you want to know?”

And that brings the tension right back. Josie and Lizzie share a look, but before either of them can speak it is Kol who does. You only know him as your troublemaker uncle. Who used to spoil you beyond belief, and encouraged you to train not only your magic but your mind. He fell victim to his impulses, to anger and the desire to destroy, he taught you to meditate. How to control but not ignore such feelings. It was frustrating at times, but useful. Something you still use, more so now with everything going on. But he taught you not to be afraid of your emotions (..unlike someone else) but to learn from them. You wonder what his reaction will be, when he learns you- no. He does not know enough to feel any disappointment. Except in what you are, perhaps he will feel disappointed that you are who they have been searching for. 

“Please tell me that I’m who taught you to fight? Because you were a _badass_!” Davina smacks him on the shoulder. “What? It’s a good question!”

“Sorry Unc-“ You cut yourself off, too familiar. “-uh, Kol, my mom taught me how to fight. And Alaric continued to train me later. But Freya started teaching me in magic before I left for the Salvatore School.”

“No wonder, I saw the scorch marks in the building. You favour fire?”

Freya is looking at you curiously, grasping for any information you will give her. Telling them that the best way to kill a beast is to set it on fire, bypass the special requirements for any death by simple burning it into ash. Or that for a few seconds, in the dark, you could _see_ as they burned (or that it reminded you of Josie and Lizzie, of fighting the mummy together). No, that is…personal. But then, is this not the best time to be honest? 

“Not particularly, but it worked best during fights.”Everyone looks confused. “Most monsters have something that will kill them. Or they can only die by that thing. Vampires, wooden stake to the chest. But I didn’t have access to anything but my magic in Malivore. So turning the monsters to ash and then scattering them makes it unlikely they’ll come back.”

“So, that’s what was with all the ash in the field.”

Ah…that was not ash. That was dust. Or something like it. Malivore turned the monsters into nothing, and then scattered them. Closer to sand in the texture than anything else. This will be the one thing you do not tell them about. Hell, you haven’t even properly dealt with the fact he is in your head, and you don’t want them freaking out. Not that it seems to be helping. Lizzie seems ill at the memory of the field (and imagine if she had been there, seen you strangle a twisted animal with intestines and then ripped it apart- she only saw the aftermath, not the acts). But it is Josie that speaks. Soft at first, but it builds until she is glaring at you (this, this is what you expected but even still it hurts). 

“You lied to us. _Why_?” A simple question. You were scared. Oh, there is more to it than that. Reasons upon reasons (excuses). You do want to keep them safe. Protect them, and yourself. Memories made everything so much worse. But it all comes down to you being afraid. Of their reactions, of what would happen if they turned your help away. And it was easier. To keep everything bottled up, to avoid and to run, it is what you know. It is all you know how to do (even now, you are trying to count all the exits and the quickest route to leave). But that is not what Josie wants to hear. You don’t know what she wants to hear. Does she want the truth, that it was your _cowardice_ , or does she want to hear you did it to protect them? Neither sounds good. Both will result in you getting yelled at. However, even if you had an answer ready, it does not seem like Josie wants to hear you yet. “You were right there in front of us, we could have helped!”

They couldn’t have! Even _if_ you had told everyone the truth, what would have happened? They would have expected you to go back to the school, to act as if everything was fine, force you to listen to platitudes of ‘we’ll figure it out’ as they treat you like a stranger. Like someone to _pity_. What about what you wanted? It wasn’t all bad, being alone, it forced you to think. To come to terms with things you ma not have otherwise. Of course you would not want to do it, but it was- you were almost _normal_. A Mikaelson is not meant to be normal, you are warriors and leaders and villains, but it was nice to pretend for a time. Every relationship was built on a lie, and that you do regret, but you did not lie about _who_ you were. Lied about your origins, your experiences, but you never lied about yourself as a person. 

“Maybe. But it was my choice.” And it was. It was your choice, as the only person who remembered. Not necessarily a good choice, the right choice- it was, but they do not agree- but it was your choice. “I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“But you did, Hope.” Lizzie is looking at you, leaning forward with something like understanding in her eyes and it is too much. But you can’t run. Not now. “It hurt. What do you think we would have felt, if we found you in that building and you were dead? Or even if we never found you? How do you think we would feel? It would have crushed us.”

They weren’t meant to know. You were just going to disappear, and they would have been none the wiser. No one would have been hurt. Yet no one seems to agree, and Keelin is staring at you with something like sadness. It is almost worse than the understanding in Lizzie’s eyes, because at least she remembers you. But your family, Josie, they do not. They don’t get it. They woke up and did not know anything was wrong, they had a life, they were safe. You were fighting for your life and _died_. Do they just expect you to pretend everything was fine? No. No. That’s- that’s unfair. Yes. You suffered. But it is not their fault. They were stressed and worried, they had their minds tampered with. But that does not mean they have any right to judge you. Lizzie is right, it would have hurt them to find you dead. But you already died. And you did so _alone_. It would have hurt them, yet what about you? You died, and no one knew. No one remembered. 

Should you apologize? For…well, you’re not sorry for what you did, not entirely. Honestly, if you had to change anything, it would be contacting them in the first place. Just track down the monsters, take care of it, and then leave. Or would you? If it came down to it, would you really leave them behind? Probably not. Still, giving an insincere apology would be worse than not apologizing at all. What you can do, is assure them that things will be different. If they want you to leave, you’ll leave. If they want you to stay, you will. Do you want to stay? Of course, but not if it makes them uncomfortable. 

“I’m sorry for what you went through. It was…I can’t say I regret my actions, not when it ended with the Necromancer dead. But I could have gone about it better.”

“I think that is a slight understatement, love.” Aunt Rebekah seems exasperated, relived but exasperated. “But there is a more pressing issue that needs to be addressed. Freya, Davina.” The two women look up. And it’s only now that you see how _tired_ they look. Eyes heavy and movements laden with exhaustion, but they are still focused. “Have you worked out the spell?”

“No, it’s…the words are there, but something is preventing it from working. It just fizzles out. Almost like our magic is fighting against the spell.”

Marcel whispers, under his breath but you can still hear (and at some times you can be grateful for the ability- other times, not so much). 

“they’re trying to figure out the memory spell used on Lizzie.”

That’s. Well, it isn’t going to work. The knowledge is instinctive, not quite your own but as if something learned through a textbook, and you know it will not work. The magic is…intrinsic to who Mnemosyne was. She was not a titan, not in how the books and myths described, but she was powerful. Like a witch whose magic could only affect one domain, mind and memories. Limited, but very, very powerful. Yet you know how it works. How to fix it or make it widespread. They’re arguing, trying to figure out if it is the spell or their magic (it is both). Steadily growing louder. This? This is something you could fix. But do you want to? Not, of course you want them to have their memories but it is- fuck, its horrifying. But this is not your choice, it concerns far more than just you. 

“It’s not going to work.” They fall silent, Freya and Davina, at the sound of your voice. “The spell, it won’t work for you. But..I can use it.”

“How?”

A shrug and an arrogant lilt to your lips, all false but the truth is something you will not share.

“Because I’m that good. She tried to cast it on me, it didn’t work. Up close like that though?I saw how it worked.”

Too tight. You can’t breathe. First instinct is to fight, but you realize that it’s just Bekah, she’s just hugging you. She seems happy, maybe? But this is not going to be pleasant. Mnemosyne made it unpleasant for Lizzie, and while you can try to make it easier on them there will still be an element of pain. Once their memories are back, you will not steal them away. They need to understand. It could be easier to pretend, for you to leave and allow them to go about their normal lives. 

“You shouldn’t be casting anything.” Freya is frowning, a deep set worry that furrows her brow. “You’re still recovering.”

There is still the ache in your chest, but it is nothing you have not dealt with before. This is bigger than a little discomfort. 

“I can still cast it. But,” Your gaze flits around the too small living room, landing on stacks of paper and pictures of yourself. A heavy sigh wrests its way from your chest, and when you look back up at everyone, it is with a hard stare. “understand this may be painful. And I can’t take the memories back. You need to be sure.”

“I want to remember.” Josie stands, and as she moves closer, all you can do is watch. No hint of shyness or hesitation. Here is the girl that did black magic with you, who set her ex on fire. “I want to know the truth, Hope, all of it.”

And what will happen when she has it? How will she look at you with memories of a decade of arguments and pokes. No more laughter in a forest, studying over coffee, no more flirtations that could have become something more. Because while you grew to know Josie, better than you ever did before Malivore, she knew you as Andrea. Who is a very different person from Hope. It’s disturbing, almost, to be able to pinpoint changes in your personality from Hope to Andrea (and it was not a mask, it was not any different from who you are, but it would be a lie to say you are the same as you were before Malivore). You are…not kinder, still too brusque and indelicate with your words (unlike your mother, who could twist a person around without even truly trying), but you are more willing to listen- except when in the throws of your panic and anger- and less willing to hide your emotions. It was easier to do that before Malivore, when the haze of apathy was so so strong, but with your change brought the heightened emotions (you have never understood MG more) and it is impossible to ignore them. To act against them feels like tearing yourself in two. You can feel it now, as you reach out to cast the spell, the way your fear is begging, pleading you to not do it. To keep things safe and comfortable, if not pleasant, but you can’t. It’s not who you are.

So you let the magic flow, it feels so unlike your own magic. It feels calmer, smoother, more soothing when your own is like a lightning storm. Crackles of power and surging booms. But you hold the feeling, it is imperative to the spell. Glowing tendrils of green, not the sickly colour Mnemosyne threw at Lizzie but a lighter green. Like fresh grass in the spring. Everyone is tense, but they do not move as the wisps of energy float towards them. There is relaxation in their faces as it hits them, instead of the panic and fear Lizzie felt, and it is a sign the spell is going right. And then it swells, a nigh overwhelming feeling of peace and safety. And it is discomforting (the peace sets you more on edge than knowing there is danger) but it is working. Josie is still standing in front of you, and her eyelids flutter. Before opening. And she stares at you, with anger and sadness and _pain_. 

“Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Sorry for the cliffhanger! Hope you guys are not too displeased. Thank you for all your previous comments, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Hope is being contradictory at times, but she's having a crisis and coming down from what was essentially a very long period similar to a panic attack, breakdown isn't quite the right word but it is close. Tensions are high with everyone, but we'll get some calmer conversations next chapter! Please leave a comment or critique below!


	12. ...Remembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: And here we are, some long awaited conversations, although maybe not the ones you expected. More will be in the next chapter. So, saying this now, there will not be any explicit form of sex in this fic. I am not comfortable writing it. There may be mentions of it, fade to black etc., and conversations, but the acts will not be described. Just wanted to get that into writing.

Somewhere in my dreams tonight  
I’ll see you standing there  
You look at me with a smile  
“Life isn’t always fair”

Jen Farrell

The memories do not come in waves, no, it is like a fogged over mirror slowly clearing. Little moments, some faded with age, are there as if they have never left. Even though it was gentle, calm, the sudden switch from only knowing Hope as your niece, someone you love more on principal than any true knowledge, to knowing her as the little girl you helped raise (the one that called you mom more than once, before she was old enough to realize you were not her mother), it is disorienting. Which is why you can only stare, as Josie sucks in a breathe, and even if you can not see her face the way Hope’s… _shutters_ \- blocking away any emotion, so quick that it is sad, she was prepared for this- shows that Josie is not pleased. Both of them turn, and while Hope is gone, almost faster than you can see (and that’s…disturbing, Marcel is perhaps slightly faster but it is still astounding), Josie runs out the door at an all too human speed. The doors, upstairs and front, slam at roughly the same time. And then the room is quiet. For only a moment, and then Lizzie is throwing her hands in the air with a groan. 

“Of course…spend months trying to find your soulmate, find them, and then both of you run away.” She looks rather dismayed. “Why is it that everyone I know are idiots?”

No one looks even vaguely sympathetic. Of course, you and most everyone in the room have hundreds of years experience with your family. A few teenagers should be easy…Right? Well, perhaps it is a tad careless of you to assume this can be taken care of quickly. Your niece was rather closed off at the best of times, something that only seems to have grown worse. So much like her mother…using anger as a shield was something of a trademark for Hayley, and it seems Hope has kept the tradition alive. But eventually the pain will come through and the longer it is shoved away the more it will grow. Which means a conversation is in order (how long has it been for Hope? Since she has someone to turn to for help?). But, as you begin to walk towards the stairs, a voice interrupts you. 

“You should talk to Josie, I’ll take Hope.” All of Lizzie’s sarcasm and joking fades away…Well, not entirely. You have a feeling that it would take quite a lot to stop her from cracking a joke- side note: never, ever, leave her alone with Kol- but it is clear this is serious for her. “No offense Mrs. Mikaelson, but both of them need a slight kick in the ass. And I don’t think Hope can handle talking to her family right now, and Josie is probably a little pissed at me right now.”

“She has a point.” Marcel pushes off from the wall, moving over to you faster than human- a slight warning to Lizzie, you think, and one the girl catches from the way she pales slightly…but she does not falter. He gently nudges you, a knowing look on his face. “Would you honestly be able to say something that could be hurtful right now? Even if she needed to hear it?”

You could. It is not as if you had not done it before. But that does not mean you want to, and Lizzie looks like she needs to do something. A near desperate itch that has her fingers twitching and eyes darting around. Perhaps your niece is not the only person who needs to talk- you did not forget the way she looked at the field, the way both memory and reality flickered through her gaze. The years have taught you how to read people (although, you are not necessarily _good_ at it) and this could be beneficial. Not to mention you could get to know Josie better. Soulmate or not, she seems important to Hope; it would be best to ensure there is nothing untoward being planned. Oh, it is not just in your own interest, the girl needs someone to talk to, but there is no harm in finding out more. So…

“Okay. Just,” looking at Lizzie, it is hard not to feel every single year of your age. Because these are children, and they should not be looking so tired. Lizzie is standing tall, but there are shadows in her eyes and a shake in her hands. Hope was jittery, looking at every single exit and debating running. Josie, on the surface, seemed better off- but there was a hint of anger, twisted and _vicious_ , that was buried with shame. It is unfair. But nothing in life is ever fair. “Be careful.”

She nods, a jerky thing that seems to take more effort than it should, and stalks past you to go upstairs. And your head hits Marcel’s shoulder, a heavy groan escapes that is muffled by cloth. He chuckles, rubbing your shoulder. Only a few moments can be taken, before you straighten up and walk towards the front door. Freya and Keelin pause in their conversation, patting you as you walk past, before returning to their conversation. The kitchen is lively, with Kol the quieter one as Davina talks about Malivore. The thing that started this entire venture. Freya and Davina tried figuring out how such a thing could be created, and this time they decided not to risk contacting anyone else in the community- creating curiosity, even inspiration, would be less than good when it concerns a malicious thing that could ruin the supernatural world. But no progress has been made, and no one wants to broach the subject with Hope.

The door opens with a slight squeak, the screen door still does not close properly, and even with it starting to cool down the humidity is still nigh unbearable. It always makes your hair frizz. A slight breeze helps make it cooler. The kind of breeze that makes one want to sit on the roof, stare at the stars, and just breath as the wind ruffles your hair and dances across your skin like a gentle kiss. It is soft, and is at odds with the atmosphere around Josie. Heavy and thick, anger and confusion swirling nearly palpable. You stroll up to her, sitting down on the gently swaying porch swing, and relax. She needs someone to talk to, but Josie does not want to acknowledge it yet. Something you learned over the years, people tend to want help on their own accord. 

“Hope is…different.” Josie’s voice is quiet, meandering, as if not sure where she is going until the words have left her mouth. “Andrea was just a cover, just like Marshall was. Yet…they’re all still Hope, or, I thought they were. But. It’s. She’s somehow less secretive and more so, at the same damn time!” She groans, placing her head in her hands, and you jerk slightly. Wondering if, maybe, this is where you hug her (oh god, Marcel, why couldn’t he have done this? Why you?) but she keeps speaking before you can make a decision. “I can’t even say I missed her, like you, because she was right in front of me. But, she didn’t trust me, us, enough to ask for help. She _lied_.”

And Hope did. But that is not the entire story. It was…unkind of her. Yet you understand it. No, there are explanations and reasons, but that does not change that it hurts. Her family and friends, half-driven mad with confusion and stress over someone disappearing from their lives, and she never reached out. Not even to let everyone know she was alive. It is not entirely a matter of trust- because, as much as you wished otherwise, Hope doesn’t trust you. Oh, sure, she trusts you with secrets and aid and everything in between. Except when it comes to staying alive. And that’s what it comes down to. At the beginning, you can guess that it was merely her trying to regain footing, trying to remember that she was alive (you see it in Freya, sometimes, when she wakes up and seems so overwhelmed with being awake. Or with Davina and Kol, both so afraid to let each other go at times lest they be thrust back into when she was dead. Even with you, the pain of a stake being driven into your chest, waking to find the world moved on). But after that? When she had settled in? It was likely when she started debating telling everyone, but then the monster attack (a _titan_ and she killed it. Is it inappropriate you feel a thrill of pride at the thought?) turned everything upside down. You wonder, if you had been there, if it would have been possible to see the moment she shut all thoughts down except protecting and running. Just like she did in the living room. Where she was willing to take whatever abuse you would have hurled at her. Either way, that does not mean she did not hurt people. 

“Yes, she did. And it feels awful.” Josie looks at you, the first time since you left the house, and her eyes are rimmed with red and bloodshot. She breaths, an awful wet sound that makes your heart ache. This is when you should hug her. She practically falls into your side, quietly crying. “Hope knows this. That she hurt us, I mean. Yet I do not believe she fully understands why.” You pause. This could be…delicate. Isolation is a deadly thing. It would be foolish to assume Hope is okay (not when most of your family still suffers from trauma, even with the help of Doctor Mallard), but it’s important not to ignore what happened. Take the context into consideration, but do not ignore the effects. “It is up to you what happens, at least partially.”

“What do you mean?”

Confusion is as heavy in the words as much as worry. Your words are careful, but your eyes are trained on Josie. Watching for her reaction.

“You can leave, I have no doubt your father would be willing to pick you up. It may be easier-“

“How could you even _suggest_ that! Hope is my so- my friend. There is no way in _hell_ I would _leave_!”

So quick to respond. Did she even consider leaving? Your eyes flicker from where her fists are clenched to the point of turning white- one of them reaching up to clutch a necklace-, the anger in her eyes that is burning, but quickly fading into something like contrition. No, she did not. Good. Such…resolve, will serve her well when dealing with your family. And it is to her credit, but there is also concern. Things will be messy. If she can remember that Hope is her friend, that they are to face problems together and not against each other, then this could end well. 

“Exactly. She’s your friend. Right now, it’s important to hold onto that. Because Hope feels the same. Of all the things you should doubt, that is not one of them.” Not with the way your niece looked at her and Lizzie. You’ve seen that look before. It’s how Nik looked at Elijah. Pained but loving. No. There is no question of if Hope loves them, but if she can move past her own fears to accept that. “In all of this though: how are you?”

Josie halters, as if unsure of your question, and the time it takes for her to process it is painful. This is…not normal. The messages from Hope about what was happening at school were sparse, little information to be found, and it is concerning to consider what may have been occurring. Monsters have been attacking the school, but the kids where kept away- right? Alaric is far from an idiot, when it comes to fighting at least, and he could have contacted numerous people for help. But as more information comes to light, it seems that he may not have. Ugh. You’re almost looking forward to seeing Caroline, if only to clear this entire situation up (…well, Marcel can do the talking). 

“I don’t know.” A laugh. Bitter and shaky in the wind. Colours over the porch and staining it in orange, and Josie’s words are hollow in a way that makes everything feel cold. “I’m…angry and hurt and sad and happy. So, so, happy my memories are back. But it’s…too much. I just need some rest before I can even try to process this. And I need to talk to our friends back at school- they need to know what’s happened. God, they must be so worried. Landon was pretty upset last time he called, apparently he knew Andrea was lying.”

“I’m sure your friends will be alright. However, right now? You need to be worrying about yourself.” Something you are half sure is a nigh foreign concept for this girl. Worrying about others instead of processing her own worries and issues. “When you speak to Hope, you need to know where you stand. How you feel.”

She does not respond, remaining silent and the only thing that fills the air is the sound of the bench swinging and cicadas buzzing. A moment passes. In which you relax against the back of the bench and breath, relishing in the smell of food drifting outside, the trees slowly dropping leaves that swirl in the air. Away from the city, from the noise, but still undeniably in New Orleans. Maybe you shall stay, even after this whole thing is in hand, because it has been some time since you were with family, and you miss it. Josie stands up, moving towards the door before pausing. Ah, right. 

“I’ll show you to our guest room.” 

* * *

The window is open, a slight breeze drifting through it and ruffling the dark curtains; Hope stands in front, not pacing, and so tense that it looks painful. Her back is turned to you, slightly hunched, but you can imagine the look on her face. Cornered and debating running. Well, we can’t let that happen, hm?

“Mikaelson, stop brooding like Batman, sit down.” If it was possible, Hope tenses even more. Jeez, girl’s gonna pop a blood vessel. “Or don’t, whatever. As long as your ears are working it doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t expect me to respond? No, what am I asking, of course you don’t.”

Bitchy, but there’s a small smirk on her face. She’s joking. Even when the two of you weren’t frenemies- oh who are you kidding, you’re friends, ew- it was…fun to shoot back insults. Of course, it typically ended with either her or you overstepping and turning it into something crueler. But it’s familiar, comforting almost, and it looks like Hope could use some comfort (in the form of insulting each other, wow, _both_ of you are fucked up- big surprise there). 

“Nah, kinda expected you to just stand there and look pretty- if you open your mouth, that ruins the ‘pretty’.”

Hope snorts, relaxing minutely, and by ‘relax’ you mean that she seems slightly less likely to bolt. The smile on your lips is wide, sharp, and as comfortable as any clothing; it is one you practiced, perfected, meant to show derision and a lack of care- hurt others before they can hurt you. And yet Hope has always seemed to be somewhat of an exception to that. She would, and still does, bite back at you. Yet it was more personal than with others, got under your skin quicker, and stayed there longer. Part of why it hurt so much when Josie told you Hope said- well, awful things (and, yeah, the two of you still need to talk about that- avoidance is something you have been working through). It’s still easy though. 

“Funny, coming from someone who doesn’t even have to open their mouth to ruin that.”

That startles a laugh, loud and bright, from you. A smaller smile, but not an insincere one, curls the edges of Hope’s mouth- a soft and delicate thing. Not one you have ever seen before. But it has been months, things are undoubtedly different. And Hope is essentially a physical representation of change. Gone is the near arrogant tilt to her head, one that never failed to infuriate you, and instead of the tall and wide stance is a hunched posture. Nothing is more visceral than the bite on her throat. It’s a mess of torn flesh and divots, uneven and even if it is merely paler than her normal flesh, the only red near the raised edges, you can imagine the blood that poured from it. Great, now your hands are shaking again ( _bullets whizzing through the air, home made bombs exploding and dirt hitting you, the screams of anger and pain from your classmates as they fought triad and died_ \- all wiped away with barely a care). 

“Hey, hey, are you okay?”

Hope is in front of you, eyes wide and worried, when you were the one coming up here to help her. Nope. Not doing this right now.

“I’m fine. Yep. Never better. But you, Hope, just ran away from your friends and family and are eyeing up that window like it holds the secrets to life. Pretty far from alright if I ever saw it. Not to mention the little party you had earlier- except I don’t think entrails are meant to be streamers.”

Aaand there Hope goes, ducking back into her turtle shell. Damnit. At least she’s moved away from the window? Minor victories. Let’s see if you can keep it rollin’. Just…maybe think a bit before you speak? Man, this isn’t going to end well. Maybe Mrs. Mikaelson should have come up here. God knows you have no clue where you’re going with this. 

“They were in my way.”

Her eyes are cold. It reminds you of her standing over a pile of bodies- _fantastic_ hair, you will admit- and blood dripping over her hand and from her mouth. Then, it was the kind of emptiness that still sends chills down your spine (you were taught about vampires turning off their humanity- but to _see_ it was…yeah.); now, it is not empty- not truly- it is anguished. Not that you can fault her for it, the monsters came after your friends, that’s not even mentioning that bitch Nememene-whatever. So, yeah, it’s unsettling, but it isn’t anything you’ll run from. Because this is _Hope_ , annoyingly heroic and perfect, would never hurt her friends- well, when she pulls her head out of her ass. 

“So you removed them. Okay. Still doesn’t tell me that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Pull the other one.”

A snarl, vicious and harsh- quickly strangled into something like a cough. Jarring in the near quiet of the room, where you had expected some form of retort. Not…a growl. Of course, perhaps you should have anticipated it. Hell will freeze over before anyone at your school attempts healthy conversation. Coping? Communication? What’s that? Not that you truly have any room to talk, but, well, someone needs to act like they have some semblance of intelligence. And considering Josie’s intelligence seems to poof into nothing when she gayyzes at Hope, and vice versa- though the two idiots haven’t realized, or accepted it, themselves- your sister won’t be of any help. The Mikaelsons, well, they scare you; but they haven’t seen Hope during the fight with Malivore, or during her ‘episode’’. 

“Hope. You don’t need to talk, not if you don’t want to.” It’s quiet. Whelp. There goes the reverse psychology thing. Let’s try apologies. “At the park, I was…perhaps, just a little, tactless. Rushing in was dramatic- still deserved though. I doubt you would have done anything but run if I hadn’t cornered you, and even then you still ran, so you’re still more dramatic. So-“

“Is this your idea of an apology? I’m not the best at them, but I’m decently sure you’re not meant to insult the person you’re apologizing to.”

“Fine! I am _sorry_ for…for ranting at you, for not hugging you and telling you that, and I will deny this if asked, I _missed you_.” It’s almost insulting how Hope is staring at you. Wide-eyed and disbelieving. But it’s true. You have missed her. “Now, are we gonna hug or are you going to stare at me?”

She stares at you, arms wide open and eyebrow raised near mockingly, for a moment and- you have an armful of a very short (seriously, she’s like, boob height- it’s a _great_ view but holy hell Hope is tiny) tribrid. Her arms wrap around you, near painfully tight, before loosening. Right. She’s a full blood tribrid now. You saw it before, in the New Orleans bar, and then in the park. You doubt the others have made the connection, not fully at least. They knew enough to feed her blood- although the fact her mouth was dripping with it and full of fangs likely had something to do with it- but there’s more to it. That draws you back to what you’ve been avoiding. That scar. Her jumpiness, more so than before. Josie mentioned the panic attack (or is it an anxiety attack? You always get the two mixed up) in the alley. Vampires have to die to turn. Werewolves have to kill someone. Witches, well, they’re almost lucky in that it’s typically minor arson, in Josie’s case, or flying items, in yours. But you doubt that Hope’s turn could be termed ‘lucky’. Dad mentioned it before, well, when he thought you and Josie weren’t listening as he was talking with Hope. She had to have died. Heart stopped, no breathing. Dead. Bringing it up now would be indelicate, even you know that. Doesn’t stop you from wondering though. 

“Lizzie.” Hope’s voice is muffled, she’s still hugging you (that’s more human contact than you’ve ever seen from her). “Was I…are you and Josie okay? I didn’t want you to be involved in this.” She moves away, running her hands through her hair. An agitated motion. Her eyes dart around the room, filled with books and painting, but not focusing on anything. “This was meant to be _easy_. Why couldn’t you guys stay away?”

Easy. Holding onto Josie the entire car ride back, as she was sobbing, because Mrs. Mikaelson had to carry out Hope’s half dead body. Covered of claw marks and bites and burns and frost, blood both her own and others sticking to her skin, clothes shredded. That was supposed to be easy? Because the look on everyone’s face, the way your stomach _dropped_ , before Josie managed to choke out that Hope was alive- that was not easy. It was hell. The thought of being _too late_ , nearly choked you. Josie was, well, the last time she looked like that was after Jo was re-killed. As if she just couldn’t process what was happening. The Mikaelsons. Rebecca (even calling her by that in your head is a little…unnerving, the Mikaelsons all seem larger than life) was moving purely on instinct. She didn’t cry until Hope was in her bed, blood pack set up, and she just…crumbled. Repeating something over and over that you couldn’t hear, but that made her husband’s face turn sad. Freya and Keelin- you had seen them, they came to pick Hope up for the holidays a couple times- clung to each other. And all of them took time to reassure each other they were alive. That kind of pain, that is going to linger. Seeing Hope carried out and thinking her dead? The aftermath? No. It was never going to be easy. It is hard not to let the anger welling up, burning and spitting and rushing to get out, overwhelm you. But it would be a detriment here.You still need to make her understand though. 

“We would have kept searching, Hope. We all knew something was amiss. But,” Hope looks up, and your posture is probably a mirror of her tenseness from earlier, “if we were a day, a week, later- we wouldn’t have found you. It wouldn’t have been a happy family reunion, Josie wouldn’t have been crying over a half-dead body. We would have found a _corpse._ Do you think that would have been easier, Hope?” She shakes her head, not really in response to the rhetorical question, but as if trying to dislodge your words from her skull. “Imagine. Your family, searching for months, hoping to find and help you, wanting to get their memory back. And they never manage to find you, because they didn’t know enough. That’s not all-“ although it looks like she wants it to be over. No, not until you know she understands. “-no, imagine your friends. Landon going by the coffee shop with Raf, asking your barista friend every other day: where’s ‘Andrea’? Until, slowly, they begin to realize that you are _gone_. But not Josie and I, no, that would be too _easy_. Josie would keep searching, turning everything upside down for some semblance of information, growing increasingly desperate. And me, the only person who knew. I would have known you were dead, and I would have had to watch my friends and family drive themselves half mad trying to find you.” Tears are running down both your faces at this point, and perhaps you should stop, because it’s moving past informative and into harmful. For both of you. But you have never known how to quit when you were ahead. “Say that we managed to piece together where you where, and then found nothing but a few rotting bodies and our _dead friend_. And I would have to explain, have to tell everyone about how you were our friend, how we fought together. It wouldn’t have been _easy,_ Hope, not for anyone except _you_.”

The room is not silent. The breeze and bugs make noise, but it is buried below the heaving sobs coming from you and Hope. Although hers are near quiet. Painful looking gasps and shaking shoulders, as if wracked with pain, but still…quiet. The image you painted was all too clear. And it is not one you wish to dwell on. You once wished for Hope to have never been born, to have never met you. But even with all this, you don’t think you would ever wish that again. It’s a shame it took this for you to realize it though. The bed sinks below you, your legs were beginning to feel weak, and Hope follows- sitting close enough that you can feel her warmth. When she speaks, after more than a dozen minutes, it is with a raspy and thick voice. 

“I should apologize.”

“Probably.” Wait, hold on. “But not right now. Everyone needs to…process.”

Hope looks at you, a ‘no shit’ expression if you’ve ever seen one. And it’s inappropriate, poorly times, and more than a little crass. But you start giggling. There’s more than a little hysteria in it, and Hope looks franticly concerned. Beginning to do the kind of hovering where she’s unsure if she should hug you or knock you out, and it only makes you laugh harder. Once Hope starts moving towards the door though, you manage to regain some breath.

“It’s….it’s fine. I’m fine!” Hope looks more than a little disbelieving, especially as you are still giggling slightly, but she sits back down on the bed. A few more moments of giggles dwindling down, with it comes reality. “Uh, are you ready to…talk to everyone? Because, this is going to require _words_ , and I know how you-“ A dull thud echos in the room. You blink. Once. Twice. “Did you just hit me with a pillow!?” 

Hope looks innocent, and that itself is suspicious- you didn’t even know her face moved like that- but it’s the slight crinkle at the edges of her eyes and the stray hairs standing up at the corner of your vision which confirms, yes, she did just hit you with a pillow. Okay. Your fingers reach around a pillow you’re resting on. There is a time for adult conversation. But right now, is not the time. 

Later though, when a pillow has burst and feathers fell around the room (“Seriously, Mikaelson, who actually has _feathers_ in their pillows these days?”), the two of you resting on the ground. Fading laughter and relaxation. This is what you wanted, all those years ago, when you reached out for a friendship with Hope. You just never though that you would get one. Even with all…this, it’s still worth it. Because, at the end of the day, there is no one else you want at your side other than your sister and Hope. Now, it’s time for them to realize that too. Well, differently. You, for one, don’t want to kiss Hope- soulmate shmoulmate, even before that, the two of them were either going to fight or make out one of those days (and, on some deep, deep level, you envy the two of them. Because even if they end up as just friends, they have a connection that’s hard to match. Oh sure, you have Josie, and you love her dearly, but…sometimes you want more. And is that so bad? Apparently, since the universe didn’t give you a soulmate. The asshole. You’ll have words if you die.). 

“So…I should probably go talk to Josie.”  
You wince, remembering the way Josie ran out of the house. Yeah…

“Let’s start with your family first, and then move on to Josie.”

“Good idea. At least my family won’t set me on fire if they’re displeased.”

“Oh, Hope. Josie wouldn’t set you on fire.” Hope looks over at you, a feather still tangled in her hair. “No, she’d just…Well…okay, maybe you have a point there. It’s either a barbecue or the pout. And I think I’d prefer the fire almost.”

The both of you chuckle. Hope is looking better, the red around her eyes is still there but lessening. Even on the ground, she still looks around the room. Still so unconvinced of the…safety? Or perhaps peace, of where she is. Your own hands have stopped shaking, and the faint memories of screams (caused by your _selfish_ actions) are quieter than they have been since you remembered. A part of you is thankful for the spell, because…for all the pain, the knowledge of what could have been (Josie looking at you like _scum_ , Dad a- blatant- alcoholic, children dying) is sobering in a way not much else ever has been. Even with the monster’s it was…unreal, because they were easy. Sure, there were terrifying moments, but it was easy to ignore them and focus on the high of winning yet another fight. With this, though, you saw just how it could have turned out without Hope. There had to have been other factors, of course there were, but the hinge point seemed to be this girl. This girl who seems so, so, hurt and emotionally constipated- yet so willing to lay down her life, when she shouldn’t have to! And it is unfair, that you, that children, were fighting this battle. When there are others out there who are more experienced (“I don’t want to…after everything they went through, they don’t need to be dragged into another war.” Your Dad had said, looking older than he was, and yet it was infuriating. Because those people, they are adults, they have experience. Yes, it was awful what happened to them, but what about you? What about every single kid at this school that still has nightmares after Triad terrorizing, pointing guns at them. They were kids, they were hurt, but does that mean you guys deserve to hurt as well?), there are those who could have helped but they were never told. 

Your Mom would have helped…but there was so much on her mind that you and Josie never told her the full story. Now you’ll have to do just that. She’s going to be infuriated. Whatever. You’re angry too. You’re _angry_ because no one else seems to be. No one else seems to care enough to be angry on Hope’s behalf- because she no doubt has it stuck in her thick skull this was her fault-, she shouldn’t have had to be the hero. It’s supposed to be the adults who save you. Yet dwelling on this, getting increasingly angry, hasn’t helped. This isn’t something you’ve been able to talk about either, your therapists are not allowed to know about the supernatural. So stewing in it is all you can do, for now, at least. 

Hope groans, a drawn out and low sound that is almost pitiful- a word you never much associated with her. She gets up, offering you a hand to do so as well, before stretching out the kinks in her back. Something more out of memory than any true need to, you think. Will she lose that in time? Become less mortal in subtle ways?…No. Hope is the sort of person to do those things, to try and cling to some bit of normality, and ignore her changes. But the thoughts are pushed from your mind as she looks at you, seeming far more…in the present, than she was in the park. More grounded. The smile that stretches across her face is not easy, it looks almost uncomfortable, but it is a start. And you return it, with something softer than normal, a smile you typically reserve for Josie (but after everything, Hope is your sister in all but blood- or could be, at least. You think you would like that). 

“I’m going to go talk to them now…Do you want to come?”

“No.” The word is out of your mouth before you can think, because as much as you love Hope, her family is fucking _scary_. Even when Rebekah’s husband, Marcel?, was speaking to Josie there was a kind of analytic coldness that makes you uncomfortable. And you would rather not be subjected to that again. Not to mention, Hope needs to do this herself. “I’ll go find Josie, wait with her until you’re done. Good luck.”

“Thanks. But good luck isn’t going to save my ass when Freya starts lecturing.”

The door clicks shut behind her, a heavy wooden door, and you are left in the room. Hm….time to Snoop! Well, not invasively so, of course, you’re not _insensitive._ You find a number of paintings, all oils on canvas and some crayon drawings, and books. Other than that, the room is almost painfully plain. Not much can be found in the books, a few fiction (Ooh! A romance, definitely keeping that in mind for blackmail), but quite a few are historical. With notes in the margins, either corrections in a writing not Hope’s, or just added information about events that must be from people who lived it. It is interesting, but feels…more invasive than you had prepared for, this is personal. So you close the books, quietly, and leave the room. The conversation ahead, with Josie, is probably going to be as fun as the one you had with Hope- which is to say, not much, if at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cos: Okay, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Lizzie was fun to write- Rebekah less so- and while not all conversations made it into this chapter, there will be the continuation. Please leave a comment or critique below! Thank you for reading (and, side note, after this fic is finished, I've been looking at what to write next. Would anyone be interested in a long Motherland: Fort Salem fic, or would you prefer a Hizzie fic?- or leave other ideas below of what you'd like to see!)


	13. Doubt and Relief (a demon and angel on your shoulders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys...it's been a hard week for those of you in America. For those of you protesting, I hope you have stayed safe. And for those of you outside of America, there are still things you can do. You can donate, educate yourself and others, and show support. Please, take care of each other. (Go to: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/# and https://t.co/M1nP4cvVGs to sign petitions)

She’s in the sun, the wind, the rain,  
she’s in the air you breathe  
with every breath you take.  
She sings a song of hope and cheer,  
there’s no more pain, no more fear.  
You’ll see her in the clouds above,  
hear her whisper words of love,  
you’ll be together before long,  
until then, listen for her song.

Christy Ann Martine

It’s silent as you enter the living room. Everyone heard you coming, they could have at least pretended to have some degree of ignorance- but instead every single eye in the room is focused on you. Some part of you is grateful, the attention allows you to ignore what feelings Lizzie dredged up. Most of them, at least. No one wants to be the first to speak, and like in Samuel’s living room (how long ago was that? It seems to have been forever) your throat seems tight and pained. It is not like there are no words, there are things you need to say, but it- it is as if you are choking on them. But everyone just continues to stare. No movements, barely breathing. As if they are afraid that one wrong move will send you sprinting back upstairs, or out the door (…and they are only partially incorrect). So, you speak. It is rough, the tears you had shed minutes before still coarse on your cheeks and the taste of salt on your lips. 

“I missed you.” It is still silent, but no longer the oppressiveness it was before. Even if no one has moved, there seems to be a shift to something more…not patient, but soft. Less afraid. “It was…I was scared, of your reaction. If you guys would believe me. If you wouldn’t. That doesn’t mean I didn’t think of contacting you, but the more time passed…the harder it was. Until, eventually, I just gave up.”

Because it was…easier (“it would only be easy for _you_ ” Lizzie’s eyes, full of anger and pain, lip half curled in a snarl as she spit the words out. Not…not cruelly, but in an effort to make you understand) to just forget. Like they did. But unlike them, it was of your own volition. You were- are, still are even if you are trying- so caught up in the past that you forgot the present existed. Part of it was because the past was easier to live in than the present. Memories are often kinder, remembered through a haze of fondness and nostalgia, then the harshness of truth and daily life. But then, was it not your fear that this is what would happen? That you would turn to memories, instead of seeing the people as they are. And yet, in your attempt to cling so desperately, out of a fear you would disappear alongside those memories, you did a disservice to those around you. To yourself as well. Because…you are Hope. You are Andrea. It is not…two separations, the past and the present. Both have come to be a part of you. There are differences, between what you where and what you are, but they are not- there are some good changes. If this event had occurred before Malivore was destroyed, everyone just forgetting you and with no one to support you. It- well, it would not have ended well. There are moments where you are reminded how easy it would be to give in, to the darker impulses that are louder now that you have turned then they were before, and that? That would be easy. To stop fighting. But you do not want to. Perhaps it is time to show, show that you do care, that this is something you will fight for. 

“I’m sorry. For hurting everyone, for not being willing to face reality. It-“ You pause, breathing, and your eyes are no longer scanning the faces of your family, instead focused on the sky outside, now the bright blue of afternoon. Only a few hours since you have woken (and there is still pain, still aches, but they can be ignored), and yet things have already begun to change. “I can’t say that there won’t be days I mess up. You guys…you understand what I mean, when I say that sometimes the ghosts get to be too loud.” 

And it seems your ghosts are more literal than some. With memories of those you killed bleeding over. Mnemosyne is just one of many (CúSíthPerytonEuryaleSeropard- and so many more, memories being held back by a leaking damn). But still, your family will understand at least partially. Now it is silent, you are unsure of what to say. The words coming to mind not quite fitting the situation, so you are left standing in the middle of the room awkwardly. Almost silently pleading for someone to say something. Davina stands, Kol’s hand still loosely holding her own, and with a solemn look- more so than you have ever seen. 

“I’ll forgive you, on one condition.” You had expected this. It would not be so easy (and now that word has so many conflicting emotions and meanings with it, almost as much as the word love) to regain your families acceptance. You nod, a short thing, merely acknowledging and accepting whatever Davina’s demands may be. “Tell us, how in the hell did you hide from our spells?”

That…was not what you were expecting. If only because, to your knowledge, you had not cast anything to prevent scrying. No one remembered you, who the hell would think to scry? Perhaps Josie? But even then, she had no items of yours to track with. So, a simple spell should have worked if your family had access to the items- and they very much did. It is worrisome. ( **SHIELD. HUNTER.)** Oh for- that explains it. Doesn’t make it any less worrisome, perhaps more so. Forcing something like a muzzle over your power, so that people can’t sense you? Is that why your abilities have been difficult to contr- ( **CONFIRM)**. God damn it. Emotional instability, physical transformations going out of control, magic abilities being underpowered. No wonder you’ve been having difficulties! The only confirmation is that, as soon as you yell at Malivore to turn it off, something…not withdraws, as that sort of presence is still prowling in the back of your head, but lessens. It feels less like being strangled by Malivore. No one seems to notice your change, the slight relaxing of your posture and the way you seem to breathe easier. 

“I…” No lies. But that doesn’t mean you have to answer. “may know what happened, but I’d rather not elaborate on it. It has to deal with Malivore.”

Mentioning Malivore seems to do the trick, Davina shifts awkwardly, still wanting answers but not quite willing to push forward. It would be amusing, seeing how awkward they are at the mention of what happened to you, if it hadn’t actually, ya know, _happened to you_. The silence that falls, or as silent as it ever is around this area, is not as oppressive as before. But it is certainly far more awkward. No one is quite sure where to go, what to say. And part of it is probably your own fault- actually, most of it. They found you looking like an animal, trekked through a field that was a testament to your anger, and there is still probably something less than…well, sane in your eyes. Because even now, with Malivore having drawn back, it still is not the best presence to have in your head. A very physical reminder of your own death, and a constant reminder of others. No, most likely not the best form of therapy. Although, isn’t exposure therapy a thing? For phobias though…not for this situation. Whatever. Maybe it will work over time. Not like you can fix this. There is no way in _hell_ you are telling anyone- they’ll just think you’re Malivore incarnate. It’s not…a secret, per se, and if anyone directly asks you’ll answer…so you’re not lying (oh, who are you kidding, it’s a lie. A dirty lie. But not one that’s hurting anyone- like your others- and this is…very personal. So no talking about it. Until you at least come to terms with it). 

“I didn’t think you liked coffee.” Keelin’s voice is low, head tilted in the same inquisitive manner that Freya always picks on her about. A habit you have picked up. “It’s…heavy.”

No doubt. Even after…days (how long were you in the forest, then fighting? Three, four days?) without having been in the cafe, the smell still lingers. Perhaps not enough for a human to notice it, but it is almost ingrained with your own scent now. And it is comforting, reminds you of Maya and Samuel- oh, going back is going to be terrible (perhaps you could use compulsion, it is a quick thought- more of an impulse than a thought- and it is ruthlessly crushed beneath guilt and determination). Just…ignore that for now. But it is something you have come to associate with safety. 

“I work at a coffee shop.” You frown, correcting, “or at least I did. Not sure Samuel will be willing to take be back considering I disappeared for a couple days.” 

Keelin laughs, more of a chuckle, and she looks at you with such fondness (such _familiarity_ ) that it almost hurts. But everyone else is close behind, and Marcel has a look in his eyes, a subtle delight, that makes it clear he will never let you live this down. It’s not exactly where you saw yourself a year ago (but then, a year ago you weren’t exactly…in a good place- still aren’t really), but that’s one of the only parts of these past few months you would not change. Sure, it started out as a way to ensure you had a place to stay (and the first few times, in the beginning when the tips were few and the paycheck was far away, staying in the woods were nerve-racking), but Maya is a friend and Samuel is…not quite a friend, but something like it. 

But the mood turns from jovial, as Freya stands up, and the worry in the room is entirely your own at this point. Rebekah helped raise you, but Freya did too. Freya taught you magic, how to channel it, be in tune with it. About dark magic, the effects, and how they are a drug. She taught you restraint with magic, how to not abuse it. In a way, Freya helped teach you morals. Because your family tends to be rather loose with them, but Freya wanted better things for you- they all did. And she was the one to help teach that. Alaric…he tried, he did, but there was always an underlying worry, an avoidance of what you could do. Freya, on the other hand, never shied away from telling you about the harsher things. Not about your family, although any anecdotes were easily identified, even if told in such a way that you could…ignore their relation to your father and grandmother. She did not teach you to be afraid, but she taught you to be cautious. When at school, sent under a false name to hide, that caution was twisted. It changed. Yet this woman, your Aunt, you love her so much. That is why it hurts when she looks at you with sad eyes. You brace yourself for the worst, but in the event they confirm your worst fears (that they are disappointed, they are angry, that you are not the girl they knew and they no longer care for this version- despite the reassurances from earlier, a fear is irrational) you may not be able to handle it. 

“Hope.” Her voice is soft, but there is a steel under it, familiar from lessons and discipline. You look up, only half-aware you had looked away in the first place. “We are not angry with you. A little upset you did not come to us, yes. But, we still love you. We never truly stopped, little wolf. The heart can not forget, even if the mind does.”

You…crumple. Not into tears, those have dried up, but with sheer and utter relief. Clinging to Freya, head buried in her shoulder, and taking deep, shuddering breaths. There are others, surrounding you, and it dregs up worries- trappedtrappedtrapped- but you can just ignore them. Your family is here, and they still- it is. Well. You are happy. Not entirely…there are still things that need to be addressed (and despite your worries, the truth of Malivore will come out eventually. You need to prepare for that) and one thing is quite pressing. A few more moments will not harm anything though. 

“Bekah.” Aunt Rebekah hums from somewhere behind you, and a pair of arms shifts. “Would you…could we look at contacting Dr. Mallard.”

Everyone in the room freezes. Dr. Mallard is an older man, turned to a vampire in his late seventies or early eighties, but he is a contact for your family. They found him after your mother died. But, when they tried to have you go, it did not work well. Refusals, yelling, and things you regret. Eventually, Dr. Mallard told them to stop- he couldn’t help you if you didn’t want it or something (that had sounded like such bullshit at the time and only served to make you angrier, but it makes sense now). Bringing him up, of your own volition, was no doubt a shock. Yet it is necessary. You can not say you would trust him, with everything- too easy to extract, even from a vampire- but more than you would with others. And…you need help. Even in Mystic Falls, going through the motions every day and desperately trying to ignore everything and everyone, you knew that. It’s just that now, you can risk reaching out. There is no one attacking your friends, no monsters to be worried about. Anger has been your shield for so long, hurting others, and it is _exhausting_. Now, there is no use in pretending you do not care for everyone- and you do not want to pretend. 

“I am proud of you Hope.” Kol’s voice has the same lilt as always, that constantly makes it seem like he’s joking, but it is subdued. “Hell! You killed a titan!”…and he’s back. 

The tension drifts off, becoming calmer and jokes are tossed. You are content to just watch. To observe your family, and relish in it. Realize that you are together once again. It is good to see everyone so alive, although Davina and Freya look like they are about to pass out. All that time spent on the spell. But they keep going, laughing and smiling. A weight that had been on their shoulders, on everyone’s shoulders, is almost gone. But, as the floorboards creek above you, there is still something to take care of. It’s time to see Josie. You slip out of the room easily, Marcel and Rebekah notice (the latter’s eyes have not left you since you came down the stairs, as if trying to reassure herself that you are alive) as you move up the stairs but neither say a word. 

*PAGE BREAK*

Walking down the hallway, standing in front of the door, it is hard to focus on anything other than the anxiety worming its way back into your chest. It feels like breathing through sludge. Heavy, thick, and near painful to breathe deeply. Just from nervousness. Talking to Josie has never been easy. No, that’s wrong, talking to Josie is too easy. She makes you lower your guard, makes it easy to talk. Easy to want. Want to be better, to want better things, to want her. It’s all so easy around her. She makes it seem simple, not out of any true deliberate actions, but in her determination, quiet strength and optimism. Although it’s been nice, to see her louder. Snarkier, more willing to let go around you. Will that change? Now that she knows you, remembers you, will she just…stop. Soulmates…They are not always a kind thing. It tore your mother apart, it- on some level- broke your father. And it was horrifying to see. You had at first thought they were soulmates, your parents, and could not understand why they seemed to have such rage towards each other. Stiff, barely looking at each other, whenever they were in the same room. Even when you realized they were not, it was a sort of split. Between what you thought you knew about soulmates, and what you had seen. So you always had conflicting feelings of dread and anticipation for the idea of a soulmate. 

Josie being your soulmate was both a curse and a blessing. She’s…amazing. She’s also Alaric’s daughter and Lizzie’s sister- although the latter doesn’t seem as large an issue anymore, and Alaric would likely be a tad worried. He knows you, after all, or thinks so ( _‘I am top of my class’_ Something not all that surprising, with all the time you had to read in your childhood, but still an achievement and it kinda stung he didn’t recognize it). But Josie is also _Caroline’s_ daughter. A woman you have near desperately avoided. Meeting her would be unpleasant, for the both of you if your mouth gets the better of you. Right here and now though, you don’t truly care about the whole soulmate thing. It’s just not something you really acknowledged. Beyond the subtle urge that was always there, pushing you to tell Josie. No, the relationship you built with her was because you liked her. At first, it was just as some sort of weird frenemy, then it was as friends. Then after you got out, it was like you were back to square one. Josie was not your ‘former soulmate’ she was ‘a former friend’. You focused on that. The relationship built, it was not equal. Information you had, she didn’t. But it wasn’t- you didn’t become friends with her again because of that. Hell, it probably would have been easier to just walk away. Yet, you wanted to get to know her beyond the whole…stuff. You know her better now than you did before, in some ways. Possible reactions to this- beside anger- still remain a mystery. 

Standing outside her door, so still that an outside observer could mistake you for a statue. Various situations run through your mind, increasingly improbable and worse. Your family was difficult, but not like this (a Mikaelson is a Mikaelson. There wasn’t really a question of if they would take you back, it is what would happen before that) and there is no guarantee it will end well. Standing out here is not going to do much good, just delay the inevitable, but that does not mean you really _want_ to knock. The option is taken from you, as the door swings open. A very unamused Lizzie standing there. She turns back, hair flipping over her shoulder.

“Josie! Gone Girl has come back from hiding.”

“…Have you actually _seen_ that move?” 

Lizzie ignores the slight outrage in that question, and seriously _Gone Girl?_ You didn’t fake your own death! …and some other weirder things in the film, most definitely did not occur. But Lizzie just seems amused by the quiet glare. Instead stepping around you, half pushing against your back. When you step in, she closes the door behind you. Josie is just. Sitting. Upright, in one of the chairs, and looking out the window. There’s a second chair near her, one that Lizzie must have moved from the other side of the room. You stand in front of the closed door. Shifting awkwardly. Unsure if you are allowed to move further in. There is a very clear ‘do not disturb’ aura around her. A minute passes. 

She remains still, the only sign that she knows your there is her studious avoidance of not looking in your direction.

Another minute.

Even though you do not feel the stiffness of your muscles, there is a phantom pain, as if your body is still confused by the change to full tribrid. But you remain in place. 

Another minute.

Unlike in the living room, it feels like it is not your place to break the silence. Josie is fiddling with a bracelet, a sign her thoughts are racing. You do not want to give her excuses, explanations. She deserves more than such a thing. She deserves to be heard. The necklace was a…a copout of sorts. It was well meaning, it even saved her life. Drew attention when she was in danger, not something you had planned on but a design works as intended, even if the intention is somewhat unrecognized. Listening is what you should have done. No magic is a replacement for what can be done with action- at least, not typically. And while you did not listen then, you can do so now. 

A fourth minute passes.

She looks at you, finally. It hurts. There are no tear tracks on her face, only the slight red around her eyes but even that is faint, and while Josie has a habit of hiding how she feels, now is not one of the times she is doing so. Confusion, sadness, anger, and a dozen different things swirl on her face. She looks you up and down, as if trying to reconcile her memories- Andrea and Hope, both the same person yet separate in memory. Separate in how she felt for them (at least you hope, you do not think she disliked you before her memories were back). It is a confusing, messed up situation.

“I found your notebook. Your responses. Not all of them, but…enough.” Her voice is slightly rougher than normal, and even if you know that it should not, the sound relaxes you. Then you process the words. And it seems odd, that she started with the notebook (one that should have been burned- does that mean the grimoires are still out there), instead of the lies. But it was what started her search, you guess. There is embarrassment, the replies were…more honest than you would have allowed yourself if they were actually going to be read by her. “I searched for you. Even mentioned it to you, of course, I didn’t realize it was you. Just…why? Hope? No one else really knows what happened at Malivore- only that you jumped in and destroyed it- but I remember your voice. You were scared. And _relieved._ ”

“…my family named me Hope, because they wanted me to be their future. But all I’ve done is mess up, and there may have been another option. I didn’t want to though. And there actually wasn’t time, that was the truth. I didn’t expect for everything to get so complicated.” _I didn’t expect to come back_. The unspoken sentence, part of a truth you still haven’t fully acknowledged (you didn’t expect to come back….and part of you didn’t want to), and Josie sucks in a breath. “When I woke up it- for a long time, I thought it was just a trick by Malivore.” And you had spent the first week trying to get out, freaking out from all the stimulus, and only half processing your death. You are glad no one saw the state you were in, it was disturbing- even to you, and you lived it. “When I realized it wasn’t, I didn’t know what to do. Everyone was safe, everyone was _happy_. So…I just drifted off.”

There is regret, but the time alone was time you had to think and change. In Malivore, the time to think was a curse. Just a constant spiral and depression. Outside, it was better. Time you took to adjust and change. Would you have held this conversation, before? Or would you have avoided, using sarcasm and anger as a defense. A tiresome thing. Eventually, perhaps, you would have had this conversation. It is just a what-if though, and that is still something to avoid. You may have changed, but you are still Hope (you _are)._ This is also one of the longest times you’ve spoken in a while. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“…Probably. I don’t know.” It’s not the answer Josie wants, and her brow furrows. “I mean. I could say I would, and I honestly believe that at some point I would have told you. But that doesn’t mean I _actually_ would have. It’s…hard.”

“How?”

It is not a question asked out of anger, but one of true curiosity. It strikes you, that no one has yet asked what it was like for you. They focused on how it affected them. And that…it does not upset you you have no right to be upset, and it has only been a day since you woke, but in that same vein: You have only been awake one day, and still have yet to truly process that you are safe. You are _safe_. Perhaps not truly, with Malivore attached, and maybe there will be another thing to chase down. But for now, you are safe. It does not really feel any different, you still feel on edge, and yet the fact is there. Josie’s voice is not quite soft, there is still displeasure beneath it, but she wants your answers. Even if she dislikes them. 

“I saw you guys, not every day but often enough, and it felt like looking at ghosts. Or maybe, it was me who was the ghost. I’d look at you guys, and there are subtle differences- just enough that its unnerving. But the memories…it was, sometimes I would look up, and I would be at school. Not on the street, and it would hurt all over again when reality came back.” Memories are odd things. More so to you know that there is a fundamental understanding that comes from the magic you absorbed. How easily changed and manipulated. Even if you had that knowledge when you first saw them though, it would not have helped. If anything, it would have been worse. Your memories were the only thing you had. To know that they were weak and even wrong, would have upset you. The nights, sometimes days, where memories blended together were the worst- when you could not tell what was real. It was not always overt, actually, it was rarely that simple. At least then, you could recognize them and then push it away. But the ones where it was just phantom aches, the pain, or sometimes the faint memory of a laugh. Those were harder. It…the memories were not physically there, but it was sometimes nice to sink into them. A sort of blanket. Not a good one, but a familiar one. “I also needed time to work on my…instincts.” Yeah, ripping our someone’s throat because you got a little hangry would have been very, uh, not good. “Everything was. Not new, but after so long in the dark, with the only real stimulus being-“ you pause. It is hard to remember what your friends do or do not know. But the fighting, the fact you fought for (what was it? Two months? That sounds right) the time you were in there, and dying. That’s not something they know. Yet, maybe they should? “-being the fights. Uh, the monsters, Malivore didn’t send them after you guys. He sent them after me. Didn’t like having his weakness in his gullet.”

“But he’s dead?”

“He wasn’t.” And that still stings, because you _failed_. It was all for _nothing_. Every time you dwell on it, you feel rage, towards yourself (and that is when you would shed your skin most, the shift to a wolf, the pain was almost like a punishment). “He- I was in Malivore for a while. I wasn’t just, out the entire time. But one of the monster’s, it. Well, it was faster than I was.” Josie’s eyes widen, something like horror crossing her face. Did…did she not realize that you turning means you died? No. It is not shock on her face. More like a dreaded confirmation. She suspected then. Hearing it plainly is always difficult though. It is..a personal thing within the supernatural community. MG hasn't shared his death- with you, at least- and neither has Kaleb. It is almost a taboo subject. 'If the person shares it, then you can ask, but you shouldn't bring it up yourself' kind of thing. “When my heart stopped, and then when I turned, he died. Needed to be a full-blooded tribrid to kill the bastard.” 

Josie is quiet, and the end of your explanation kind of just fades into the silence. As she absorbs the information. Then she stands, and moves over to you. Not quickly, in fact her gait is awkward. Slow, uncertain and hesitating at times. It takes a bit for her to fully reach you. 

“I’m sorry. That we couldn’t help you.” 

“It wasn’t your job, to help me, I mean.” Josie looks like she’s about to object, but you continue (after all, it’s the truth. Josie…she couldn’t have really helped. None of them could have, you needed to come to terms with it on your own. And if everyone decided to ‘help’ it would just put pressure on you.) before she can disagree. “I’m sorry, Jo. I should have told the truth.” You chuckle, lighter than it perhaps should be, and happier than it has been in a while. Being around your friends and family, seeing them safe, and telling secrets that have been weighing on you- it is freeing. Oh, stressful and painful, sure, but freeing. It must be going well, the conversation, after all. Josie hasn’t set you on fire. Yet. “Is there anything I can do? To make it up to you, what I did?”

“For me?” Josie pauses, thoughtfully. And this close to her (nearly as close as the night outside the coffee shop), it is hard to breath. Her eyes are focused above you, and you wonder what they would be filled with if they looked down a bit (you adore her eyes). “Just…don’t leave. Not again.”

The air leaves your lungs, a sharp sigh that is pained and hurt (‘ _let someone else be the hero’),_ and it is only exacerbated when Josie looks at you. Brown eyes, ringed with red, and they are sad. An almost desperate pleading, for you to stay. Even if there was the slightest desire to say no- and there isn’t- in the face of Josie’s words, and the fragile hope on her face, you would not be able to. The Necromancer said your father was suffering because of your choices (and some part of you almost regrets destroying his magic, instead of absorbing it, but it was…tainted), and while that pushed you to choose happiness then. The reason you are choosing it now, the reason you have not run, the reason you will be _staying_. It is because you _want to_. 

“I won’t.” A breath. And you stare back at Josie, determination and promise shown plainly on your face. “I promise.”

Josie searches your face, for any hint of hesitation or deception- and while deserved, it hurts a bit- and then nods. She is close, close enough that the desire to reach out and hug her (reassure yourself she is safe, because even fighting the monsters, there was the fear that the Necromancer would still hunt them down- would have used them as bait, if he had been less arrogant in his skill), but she steps back. 

“Okay….okay.” She looks away, thinking, and those few moments are spent trying to regain your breath (being close to her, it feels like a storm. Where your hair stands on end, everything is charged, and the air is thick. It is hard to breathe, but it is…thrilling, in all the best ways). “So, soulmates?”

In some ways, you had been looking forward to this even less than the conversation about the lies, and leaving. Because at least with that you know how to address it. This? It is foreign. Josie is your friend and you admire her. In a way that is, perhaps, beyond friendship. Soulmates are meant, or at least said, to be a perfect pair. Fitting each other in every single way, falling in love at first sight, friends to the grave. The two of you are clearly not those kinds of soulmates, you honestly don’t believe anyone is. Yet everyone always wants to have that sort of relationship, even you. It is tempting, to ignore all the issues, and the fact you two have only just gotten back on equal footing; but you can’t. Nothing good would come of it, and you would walk yourself into hell before ruining yet another chance at a relationship with Josie- be that a friendship or more. 

“Soulmates.” The confirmation is unnecessary, but saying it aloud is as if removing that .1% of doubt. Your next words are rushed, and you can’t bring yourself to meet Josie’s eyes. “I want to see where we could go. But, slowly? I’m working through stuff, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize this. Maybe-“ and you nearly choke on the knot in your throat, on the anxiety and worry and _whatifshesaysno,_ but force it out. “-maybe we could go on a date sometime? You told me a lot about you, and I didn’t really do the same. It’s only fair that you get a chance to get to know me more. No expectations or anything on it.”

Josie is quiet. And you remain still. As the silence drags on, you begin to realize how stupid you sounded. Seriously. A _date_? Josie isn’t even fully on board with being _friends_ yet. Hell, she may have only been okay with that because you so obviously need it (just another fucked up Mikaelson). And- no. You breathe. It is slow, shuddering, and painful. But it is deep, and not the burgeoning hyperventilation it was before. Another. It does not really get easier to breathe, to stop the spiraling your mind is threatening to fall into, but it is easier to cope with. Irrational thoughts are just that, irrational. While knowing that does not remove the hold they have on you, the worry and self-hatred, it is a step towards focusing on logic. 

“I’d like that, Hope.” 

Relief, sudden and sharp, you can breathe once again. Date is not truly the correct word for what you are planning. Sure, you intend to be romantic (note to self: ask Landon for help- wait no, no, absolutely not. Ask MG, he’s good with this sort of stuff), but this is more for the two of you to get to know each other. Reestablish boundaries, get to know each other, and just talk. There is no…expectation, or pressure, like what comes with a true date. Or at least, not in the same way. It is far from a normal situation, so it deserves an abnormal approach. Of course, with topics having run out- and an unspoken sense that what is left will be discussed during the ‘date’- you are now back to looking around the room, trying to avoid staring at each other (even if that is exactly what you want to do- when you ran off…you had prepared to never see them again. Either by dying, or by leaving if you still lived. And the former was considered preferable). 

“Does everyone else know where you are?”

Josie blushes at the question, not quite embarrassed but close to it. 

“Not _exactly_. We did call them when driving here. But we just told them that we had some leads on, well, you.”

“How mad are they going to be at me?”

“Landon? He’ll be hurt, not mad. Rafael will be mad though, not for long- he’s never stayed mad at you for long.” You cringe a little, the memory of what happened under the slug coming to mind. A poem fight between Landon and Rafael…you almost would have preferred a physical fight. Or rather, none at all. But, and this sounds bad, the way they feel will likely influence any anger. Not necessarily good, you don’t feel the same after all, but then neither of them had a crush on ‘Andrea’, so that should help. “MG will relate it to some kind of comic book thing, although you should make sure he knows you value him. He’s been understandably raw about that since his parents were assholes. Kaleb will be a little more sarcastic than normal, but if you stick around he’ll ease up. It’s just a matter of time.”

“So, patience. Awesome.”

She laughs a little at the exaggerated eye roll. Yet your smile fades when Josie frowns.

“Patience…you told me to be patient, our ‘first’ meeting.” A little scowl, not true anger like you had thought at first, and it is cute. More of a pout tugging at her lips than a scowl. “You are _such_ a hypocrite!”

“Yep. But you didn’t know it at the time.”

Your grin is completely unabashed, and she reaches out to hit your arm playfully. It’s easier, to fall back into the rapport you had before, and the silence doesn’t come back. She talks about how school has been (and it hurts slightly less than before) and you tell her about the coffee shop. Samuel would like her, you think. Although Maya will be unbearable with her jokes, there’s no getting out of telling her about the whole ‘soulmate’ thing (well…there could be, but the regret from the compulsion is still a gnawing ache). Mid laugh, some story about MGaccidentally covering Lizzie in glitter (“You can still see it sometimes! She’ll pull out a shirt for the day and it’ll be like a ‘poof’ of glitter…God, she was so annoyed), a voice calls up.

“Lunch!”

It sounds like Marcel And then another,

“No PDA! I don’t want to see you pawing at my sister, Mikaelson!”

…that would be Lizzie. You scowl, a warmth crawling up your neck. Josie groans loudly. Moving around you to head downstairs, and no doubt scold Josie. You follow close behind. And standing in the kitchen, surrounded by family and friends, laughing as Josie threatens to get the rest of MG’s glitter. It feels like home. Something you haven’t felt, something you’ve been running from, for a long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little unpolished, it was originally a lot more angsty, but I wanted something a little happier for everyone. So I hope you all enjoy. My normal upload schedule will resume by the end of this month/beginning of next. Leave a comment or critique below.


	14. The Unexpected Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VPN's in China have been sketchy recently (due to the Tiananmen Square anniversary) so that is the major reason why this is late. I'm also working with a summer school program for kids. A boarding one. Wisdom may be fond of children, but I would rather not spend twelve hours a day with forty of them.

Time is too slow for those who wait,  
Too swift for those who fear,  
Too long for those who grieve,  
Too short for those who rejoice,  
But for those who love, time is  
Eternity.

Henry Van Dyke 

The next five days are spent recovering, resting and relearning how to act around your family and friends. Those back at the Salvatore school seem a little disbelieving, you can’t do magic over the phone to bring back their memories, and Landon was…well, he wasn’t shocked at all. Some part of you is almost glad for that. The rest act differently, but Landon seems to just shrug his shoulders and move on (“we got brain slugs, demons, even unicorns! And _this_ is supposed to surprise me? A little bit of magical amnesia is nothing.”). It is almost nerve wracking. You are almost waiting for one of them to turn around, to tell you to leave. That you broke their trust too much and must go. But it doesn’t happen. And you are beginning to settle into something that is dangerously close to _comfort_. You blame a lot of that on the food (you have not had such filling meals in a long time, and not nearly enough blood ever, it is weird to not have the gnawing in your stomach. Living on a coffee shop salary can only do so much..), but the truth is that it is your family and the twins. There are moments, where you want nothing more than to be curled up next to someone, feel their warmth and the fact they are there. Relish in that you are _allowed_ to do so. But then there are the moments where you feel like crawling out of your own skin. Where everything is itchy and wrong. Keelin helps, having you shift and run- such freedom is intoxicating (the first time you went and asked her to run with you, she started crying and it took some time to realize she was happy that you had asked her). 

Whereas the hot and cold, touch and no touch, bother you- your family seems to have adapted better than you have to it. There is frustration, because you want to hug and hold and be held, but it is…too much. It is enough though, to know you are making steps towards getting better. Almost as good as the knowledge you are getting better, was the twins reactions to you accepting therapy. Lizzie was…kinder than you would have thought- or perhaps not, considering the conversation you had after the mummy (and it took a bit of explaining when all three of you shouted ‘ _no_ ’ when Kol went to put on the, aptly named, Mummy movie). Josie was pleased, and seeing her smile so widely after a few days of awkwardness was…well, it would be embarrassing to admit how happy it made you. And while it may not be spoken, the gratitude you feel for everyone supporting you is visible on your face practically every day. 

It has not been a vacation, staying here instead of going back to Mystic Falls, more of a stay of execution. Because once you return, you will also have to return everyone’s memories. Not exactly something you are looking forward to. But New Orleans isn’t your home…hasn’t been for a long time. Oh, you still love it here, but there are moments where the ghosts (the ones from your memories, not the monsters’ memories) become too strong. You’ll turn, going to show something to your mother, and then remember she is gone. It’s been a while since you last did that, being back here seems to dredge up all your old memories and aches. Staying for longer than necessary is out of the question, and everyone seems to know this. But you take each day as it comes, not worrying about some ever-looming threat or monster. Instead, just…enjoying time with the people you love. 

Which, of course, means that something has to go wrong. Because towards the end of your fifth day, there is a knock at the door. No one at the dining room table looks surprised, in fact the twins look a mix of excited and worried. The only one wearing confusion is you, something no one seems to realize.

“…we’re expecting someone?”

The table seems to pause. Davina turns to Kol with a scowl.

“I thought you told her!”

“Hey, hey, I thought Freya was tellin’ her!”

“….I was led to believe Rebekah would be telling her.”

“No, the Lizzie and Josie were meant to say something.”

It continues on like this for some time, no one seeming to realize that they still haven’t actually _told_ you what is going on. Nor has anyone moved to answer the door. A few more minutes, and then you decide to put an end to this by just figuring it out yourself. No one even notices you leave the table, except for Josie, but she’s quickly tugged back into the conversation (re: argument) by Lizzie. It’s annoying, slightly, but also endearing. It was easy to see that the twins were wary around your family, Lizzie far more so than Josie (well, Lizzie was more afraid. Josie was…cautious, almost shy, around them), and for them to be engaging in even a minor argument like this shows that they’ve become more comfortable together. 

The doorbell rings, only barely audible over the voices in the dining room, but you open the door before the chimes have fully finished ringing. And stop dead. In the future, when you look back, you’ll swear that you stopped breathing for longer than was probably safe. The only consolation is that the woman in front of you, eerily ageless in the same manner of your family, and MG and Kaleb. It is not the fact that the woman (she may look like a girl, barely into young adulthood, but the way she carries herself is…not confident, but _aware_ of herself in a way many people never achieve) shows all the signs of being a vampire that makes you stop. No, it is the fact you recognize her. From some of your father’s photographs. The ones he did his best to ensure you never saw (and only truly got a good look at once he died). Half of you is wondering what the hell Caroline Forbes-Salvatore is doing at the _Mikaelson_ house, and the other half is cussing everyone out for somehow forgetting to mention this. 

The noise from the dining room has fallen silent, and two blurs push past you; the distraction is used to fall back into the room. As far away from the door as you can get without actually moving into a different room. It is an irrational…not quite fear, but worry of the woman standing in the doorway that drives you into the house. Like an animal retreating into its den because the area is familiar. She is smiling, perky and bubbly in a similar manner to Lizzie yet tempered by a kindness that you see as Josie. Yet you know what she has done, to your family. And what has been done to her by your family. Seeing her here almost feels like an affront to something, with how long your father avoided even mentioning her and how Aunt Rebekah is still clearly distrustful of her, in fact your aunt is right beside you- and looks to be debating moving upstairs entirely. If you feel weird seeing Caroline, you can only imagine how she feels. Keelin welcomes Caroline into the house, allowing her to step inside, and the woman catches sight of both you and Rebekah. The flash of emotions on her face is…complicated. Perhaps the best way to describe it is something like melancholy and an anger that has yet to truly fade. The latter is to be expected, the former is not. For a moment you wonder what would have happened if she had accepted your father, accepted the fact he was no shining knight in armor or hero like she wanted, but was a Mikaelson. Yet you banish the musings, instead trying to focus on this…trespasser in your home (because, no matter the fact she is the twins mother, you do not like or trust her. And it is an unfair dislike, you are well aware of that, but it is not one you will dismiss out of hand. Everyone has a potential for danger, no matter how close they are to you, and the closer they are the more deadly they could be.).

“Why are you here?” The words are a tad harsher than you meant them to be, and you wince slightly as Caroline raises an eyebrow at you, questioning. “My family apparently forgot to tell me we were having a visitor-“ its almost an apology, or as close to one as you’ll get. And you are studiously ignoring Josie’s frown and Lizzie’s scowl. “-so…did something happen? Is something wrong at the school?”

What was a question to deflect from your (only slightly) unintended rudeness, turns into something like fear. A burgeoning worry that maybe you have been safe but your friends have not. Once again, resting when you should have been there to protect them. Caroline shakes her head, her answer light and calm. 

“Everything is fine. Alaric is pretty worried, and upset, with our girls for running off without saying anything. It was either he came down here, or I did.”

She shrugs, and for a moment that openness that had you so unsettled changes a bit. There’s something she isn’t saying. Instead of upsetting you, it is almost _comforting_ to realize she has an ulterior motive. At least now you can keep an eye on her knowing that, instead of constantly wondering. There’s a slight creak on the stairs, and when you look beside you, Aunt Bekah is gone. Traitor. Caroline can’t quite muffle a snort when she realizes the reason for your scowl, and who is missing. But she apologizes a moment later.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to…well, I guess no matter what someone here is going to be uncomfortable.” Caroline looks truly contrite. For some reason it makes you feel bitter…(everything seems to come so easy to her, she’s so open with her emotions. When most emotions make you feel like you’re struggling to breathe, or you don’t know how to deal with them.) “But we’ll be out of your hair soon enough!”

This statement has the twins looking as confused as you are (still, no one has cleared up what the hell is going on. And you would really appreciate it if that was rectified). Josie’s the one to ask, 

“What do you mean, mom? You’re staying in a hotel?” 

“Oh, no, no. I mean, we’re going back to the Salvatore School.” Silence. The twins don’t seem shocked by this, and you’re just…numb. You had expected this would happen sooner or later, but you wanted more time to relax. More time you could be with Josie and Lizzie. Of course, you can’t go back to the school- except to return the memories- because technically, you’ve graduated (and what do you have to show for it? Life skills? Hah, _nope_. Trauma? Hell yes.). Then Caroline proceeds to confuse you even more. “Don’t worry, Hope! The cars big enough for all of us.”

Right now, you are starting to feel irritated. Everyone else seems to be in on whatever the hell this is, and you’re in the dark. What you _want_ to do is lash out. But, instead, you take a deep breath. Let it out. Then respond, calmly.

“I need a moment alone.”

Words you have spoken more than once over the past couple days, and something you worked out with your therapist (‘ _when in a situation that could cause you stress, anxiety, or anger. Try to remove yourself from it, take a breath. Being able to do so will help you. Stressful situations are aplenty, but it is up to you to judge what you can and can not handle.)._ Perhaps if you stayed, you could work through the confusion and slight irritation, but with the fact that Josie and Lizzie are leaving- ignoring the can of worms Caroline’s offer, and the potential of hours in a car with her, opens. But you would like some time to think about your options. Going back would also mean seeing Maya and Samuel, so you need to figure out if that is a ‘stressful situation’ you are equipped to handle. Especially if it goes wrong. So, let’s think this through

* * *

Andrea’s been gone over a week now (nine days since she left, and every morning that little counter in your head ticks up). Your mother was investigating, but…no one really saw anything. The owners of the hotel said that Andrea was ‘A quiet girl’ and they only saw her when she was leaving, coming back, or paying her next advance on the room. After examining the room, she came out with a stack of papers. You caught a glimpse, one of them was of that Josie girl. Even concerned and afraid for your friend, a little bit of amusement at how desperately gone the girl was for her soulmate worms its way through. That amusement disappears rapidly when you come across the folder in your mom’s study (not snooping…well, maybe snooping. For a good cause!). The same people over and over. A man, spiky hair and a disturbing snarl, or a beautiful half-smile in another drawing. A woman, with an impassive face that somehow seems more worrisome than the man’s- yet another image, where she is rolling her eyes at someone off the page, a soft grin that you can almost feel the fondness from. A few other images, and at the bottom of each one there is a sigil. An elaborate M, alone on some but others have a dragon below the M. 

While you had been joking about the Mafia thing (only partially, there is something goin on with that girl), but this may be her family- no last name, maybe it starts with an M? Of course, there are the other drawings. Of the kids you had seen in here before. They used to make Andrea so nervous, she was always tense when they walked in and never relaxed even when they left. It was getting better, towards when she disappeared, but it was not gone. At first, you entertained the idea that they had done something to her. But it wasn’t fear when she looked at them, more like longing and concern and worry and a host of other confusing emotions that flickered past too quickly for you to catch. Honestly, the drawings of people are less concerning than the ones just made up of blackness. The pages coloured so hard that you are surprised they did not tear. And then there are some with teeth, not truly an image of a maw and more of an outline against the shadows. There are no words on the drawings, beside the sigil if that counts, and yet the desperate and slightly sloppy lines tell a story of their own. The first few drawings, the oldest ones you think, look like they were drawn hastily in some sort of burning need to put the details to paper. It just makes you all the more worried for your friend. 

You can see it in your mom’s eyes, every time she looks at you when you ask about the investigation, that she believes Andrea either ran or that she is dead. More the former than the latter. There was always something in her eyes whenever she got agitated (too loud customers, those kids coming in, etc) that leads you to believe she would lash out- and win- before laying down without a fight. Mafia Princess, indeed. But the fact that she may have run, without telling you anything, hurts. And when you find Andrea, you’ll make sure to give her a piece of your mind. When, not if, because Andrea has left you with the late shift and you’ll be damned if you let her go without a fight. Also, she’s a friend, so you should probably try and help whatever is going on. 

Samuel has been worried too, scowling more often than not and whenever you show up to help with opening there is disappointment in both your eyes when Andrea is not there. Working at the coffee shop is more a matter of routine instead of the joking banter and fun it was. But when the scraggly boy (cute in a sorta ‘woe is me’ way) comes in. He doesn’t look surprised, when he notices that Andrea isn’t here. Far calmer than you would have expected (far calmer than you are), especially for being Andrea’s friend. No…not calm. Calm implies there is something that could be worried about. This guy looks entirely unconcerned. Which means, he knows something. When he makes it to the register, he looks a little unnerved by you. The wide service grin is perhaps a little sharper than normal. 

“Hello, Andrea’s other friend.” Leaning forward, you eye him a bit, looking for any sign he may know something. He pales a bit under the stare. Hm. “Find a seat. I have some questions to ask, but my lunch break is in an hour.”

“I had plans!” You glare at him. “…I’ll just, cancel them.”

“Good. Drinks are on the house.”

At least that seems to perk him up, giving incentives makes it more likely he’ll stay as long as it is to his benefit (weird advice, mom, and yet useful). He orders and takes a seat at one of the tables in the corner, and as you watch from the corner of your eye he brings out a leather bound notebook and begins writing in it. He does so for almost the entire hour, only pausing a couple times to order more drinks. Ugh, at least the prices here are reasonable. Because ‘on the house’ really means, coming out of your paycheque Customer after customer comes in for lunch, and you serve them all with only a few fumbles (you keep expecting Andrea to be handing you things or helping and it can leave you standing there with an outstretched hand like an idiot). Eventually though, you unwrap the slightly stained apron- that is a rather nice yellow, Samuel said he hand wanted blue but his wife was in charge of marketing and design stuff so they ended up with yellow- and stalk over to the table the boy sits at. 

“So. What’s your name?” 

“Landon, I go to school at the Salvatore place. You?”

“Maya, Mystic Falls High. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way,” Your voice drops an octave (and you’ll never admit it, but you may be trying to mirror Andrea when she was intimidating some of the ruder customers, because it was really effective), “where the hell is Andrea?”

“I don’t know, I mean, it’s not like she told any of us anything before running off.” 

He’s telling the truth, as far as you can see. Maybe you should have actually paid attention to your mom when she was talking about criminal psychology. There’s no ‘tells’ but..“tells are less important than some believe,” your mother had said “but body language is still a revealer.”- not exactly what you had expected to learn from your mom, but any time spent with her is good with how busy she has gotten after taking the sheriffs job. So..how is Landon holding himself. He’s still. Not unnaturally so, but none of the little movements you noticed as he was writing are there. No tapping on the table, bouncing his leg, none of that. He is very controlled. Which is enough information on its own. He’s telling the truth, but not all of it. 

“But you know something, right?” He doesn’t budge. Fine. Time for the charm approach. “Please, I’m really worried about her. So is Samuel. Just…is she safe?” 

He pauses for a moment, eying you with something like caution, before breathing heavily and dragging a hand through his curly hair. 

“…yeah. She’s safe.”

And he stops at that. Not expanding or saying anything else. You get the oddest feeling he’s trying to _protect_ Andrea. Which…you may be mad at her, but you’re not gonna like, kill her or anything. But, he told you what you wanted. Not all of it, but enough. At least for now. 

“Well, if you can let her know, tell her that I’m planning to kick her ass when she comes back. And then she _will_ be watching Batman with me.”

“Which one?” Landon seems curious, as if this answer could make or break you in his eyes. “Nolan or..?”

“Keaton, I like Nicholson as the joker in that one.” 

“Really? I think that Ledger kinda perfected the Joker.”

“Oh, definitely, but Nicholson was great too. And anything is better than Batman & Robin.”

“Oh god..”

You lose track of time talking to Landon, and even though the worry for your friend has lessened it is still there. But all you can do for now is wait for her to come back. 

* * *

Thinking things through is terrible. Awful idea, really. All it has done is make you more nervous. Going back is something you could do, but is it the _smart_ thing? You’ve technically graduated from the Salvatore school (with a few months missing. And no records of your grades. Damn, you were proud of the perfect grades. Well, almost perfect. Thanks, Ms. Brown.) and it isn’t like you actually need the safety of it anymore. You don’t have a house or place to stay, but with access to your money now you could just buy one- but you could also buy one somewhere else, have a fresh start. Honestly, the only thing tying you to Mystic Falls are the people. Even if you argue with yourself, debate endlessly, the truth is that your friends will keep you at Mystic Falls. You want a chance to repair what you did. Plus, you and Josie agreed to give the whole soulmates thing a try (and her mother showing up ruined the night in New Orleans you had planned). It really comes down to: do you want to go back? 

The answer is something you’re torn about. Yes, you want to see your friends, you want a chance at building better relationships, and you don’t hate the town. No, you don’t want to see Alaric (and his judgy eyebrows), or try and explain to Maya what’s going on, and you would rather avoid being away from your family so soon after getting them back (or is it them who got you back? Both?). It’s just a gigantic mess. Something that seems to be your new- well, is it truly a _new_ constant? Not really, but it is something you are tired of. Your typical response to this would be to ignore it, hope that you can avoid it; when you can’t, then lash out and make everyone leave you alone. You can’t do that though, because it’s ‘unhealthy’ and ‘is conflict avoidance instead of _dealing with your fucking emotions, Hope!’_ (Thanks, Lizzie, love you too). So…the only true answer to this is to go back to Mystic Falls. But you don’t want to! Well, you do, but- ugh. 

Okay. You are not looking forward to seeing everyone’s reactions, and dealing with the fallout is going to be uncomfortable, emotionally taxing, and may not end well- therefore you don’t want to go to Mystic Falls. However, dealing with this is a step towards acknowledging your mistakes, fixing them, healing, and building a life with people on an honest basis- therefore you do want to go to Mystic Falls. Either way, not going to Mystic Falls isn’t really an option unless you want to forever see Josie’s disappointment, Lizzie’s sass, and your family’s careful prodding to try and get you to go. And the more time you spend debating this, the more difficult going back is going to be as all the secrets will start to fester- already learned that, didn’t ya? 

You’re not the same girl that went into Malivore, and you’re not even the same one that came out, but you would like to think you have grown to be better than both. At least, you are trying to be better. Looks like you’ll be going to Mystic Falls. Brilliant. Absolutely _perfect_. It’ll be _fine._

…this is gonna fucking _suck_. 

There’s a knock on the door. Not one you recognize. Those in the house know by now that they should wait for you to leave the room (not that Lizzie respects that, and you wouldn’t turn Josie away…and Aunt Rebekah likes to check on you, and Marcel- okay, so maybe a lot of people knock) and you don’t recognize this person’s knock, or scent. Caroline. What does she want? You move over to the door quietly, something like curiosity or maybe wariness crawling into the crease between your brow. A mix that leaves you feeling slightly nauseous. You open the door, and there stands Caroline. Smiling, and there’s a sudden, bitter, anger that crawls up your throat. You’re not truly angry at her, not really, but she is standing here. Alive and happy. While your father is dead, and she doesn’t even seem to care, while sometimes it was like she was the only thing your father could see. Even younger, when you did not have a name to put to the look on his face, you could recognize when he was in one of his moods. It was not a look you liked. Because you got to see him so rarely, and then he was there and there was so clearly someone else on his mind. 

You would see it on your mother’s face, occasionally, but not nearly as much. She was better at hiding it. Both of them…the way they loved was consuming. When they loved, it was their focus and the only thing they could think about. It was passion, anger, desire, and a whole lot of other things. The sort of love that someone could be burned up by from the inside out. Nothing is ever simple when it came to your family, not even love (But you don’t want a love like that. One that is all energy, short-lived passion, like a candle burning too fast. You want something soft, silly, kind. Something _comfortable_ ). Gaining the heart of a Mikaelson is no easy feat. Yet this woman managed to do so for your father. Your mother and Elijah, you could understand, proximity and constant exposure or something. But Caroline…

A slight frown curls the edges of your mouth before you can force it away, choking back the unfair anger, and turning away with a careless gesture for Caroline to follow you into the room. A moment where she can’t see your face and you use it to regain composure. Then you turn, and look at her. She seems…almost nervous, shifting from foot to foot- a gesture you recognize from Lizzie. The two are quite alike, and yet you can only see Josie in the careful way Caroline looks at you. Evaluating her words. You relate the twins to their mom a lot, but that is only because they are the only frame of reference you have for the woman. Identifying similarities makes it easier for you to sketch out an idea of how to talk to this woman. How to predict her.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. Probably more over the years, but I don’t seem to remember that.” Her smile is more playful as she tilts her head, “probably due to the whole memory eating thing, huh? Been a wild year for you guys.”

She laughs a bit. You don’t smile. Does she see it as a joke? That you and the school lived in fear for months. Losing sleep and struggling to make it through class without jumping at every noise thinking it was another monster. Or how the people who watched the little kids were terrified to let them out of the school for _weeks_ after the Gargoyle encounter? How about Alaric having a system set up in case he needed to corral the kids (once a hunter, always a hunter)? The anger you had fought back moments before wells up, and bursts. 

“Yeah, haha. It is pretty funny how everyone I loved forgot about me.” Caroline’s smile fades. Some vicious part of you, a rather large part, grins at the sight. Make her uncomfortable, (as uncomfortable as she makes you) put her on the back foot. “Pretty funny how the school was under siege by paramilitary soldiers, and our Headmaster helped them. Pretty fucking funny how Josie almost died from being shot by one of those assholes, and then I _did_ die because my throat was ripped out while I was slowly going insane.”

“… _what?”_ Instead of looking uncomfortable (and you did _not_ mean to say all that- looks like self-control is the first topic next session), Caroline looks absolutely livid. A growl, low and angry, rumbles in her chest. You can only be thankful that Freya had the foresight to use the same charms she gave to the Salvatore school for keeping rooms private, on the rooms here too. Or else half your family would be in here. With stakes. The other half with just fangs. But Caroline pauses, and breathes. Then asks in a voice that is far too calm to be true. “I was not told about this. Would you mind explaining?” 

“You- you didn’t know? How?” 

The scowl, mirrored on your face, says Caroline is wondering the same thing. So, you explain. Walking her through the last few months. She knew some things, mostly about the monsters. Nothing about Triad though, or of Josie’s wound. And of course, nothing about you- but that is no surprise. There are a few times where you have to pause, allowing Caroline to calm down, and then there are times where she seems angry and it confuses you.

“He brought you along to fight monsters, find these artifacts, and put you in _danger_?”

As much as your feelings towards Alaric are…complicated, this is not one of the things you blame him for. 

“Well…we would have went anyways, and at least he was with us when we tried to do stupid shi- stuff.” She doesn’t seem appeased. “Look, Ma’am, I’m not saying it was a good idea. But it was the best option. Especially since bringing me with him resulted in figuring out stuff he wouldn’t have before, and then it was only me who could have ended Malivore. If you wanna be mad at him, sure, but not for that.”

“Do you know you were the only one who could have stopped Malivore?”

“What?”

“Vampire, witch, and wolf. You may be all three, but what about collecting blood from three different people and then just…dropping the vial into the pit. What would have stopped that from working?”

“…I’m the child of an Original-“

“-all vampires come from an Original sireline.”

“I was the only one at the pit at the time.”

“Due to a series of _screwups_.”

“…Do you honestly think it would have went down any other way?” At this point, you just feel…tired. “I’m not a big believer in destiny, but the universe does have a way of making things happen. Magic itself tends to be…picky, at the best of times. The fact I, the only tribrid to have ever existed, was the only one who was there to stop a monster that could be halted by the blood of a witch, vampire, and wolf? That’s a little bit more than a coincidence.”

“And if it was destiny? You’re okay with that?”

“Hell no. There are things that should have been done better. On my part and others. But I can’t change what happened. All we can do is keep moving, and try to do better.” This woman, someone who you disliked, is looking at you with something like a pained understanding. And you realize that she went through just as awful situations. She does understand. “Accepting something doesn’t mean I’m okay with it. Just means that I’m not going to obsess over it.”

An amusement that is not yours flickers in the back of your head. Even if Malivore doesn’t ‘say’ anything, you agree with him. Hard to obsess over something when it is actually living in your head. And honestly isn’t that bad. Odd, but…bearable (although that in itself is unsettling. Could he be doing something to you? It seems unlikely, but then you didn’t notice the magic he was drawing from before). 

“I think you are more mature than I was at your age.”

“Having access to therapy tends to do that.”

It’s dry, more of a joke you’d say to Lizzie instead of someone else to avoid upsetting them, but Caroline barks out a laugh that is startling in what was formerly a serious setting.

“True enough, Hope.” She’s still smiling, and the anger that you had pushed down at the beginning is not gone- years of resentment do not just disappear, even irrational resentment- but it is easier to ignore. “Josie and Lizzie are packing their stuff for the trip. I understand my arrival was a surprise, but the offer to come with still stands.”

“…yeah. Just give me a moment to grab some clothes.”

Maybe this is a bad decision, but it can’t be any worse than your other ones, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Maya and Landon in the story. I promise I have not forgotten them, and we will be seeing them very soon. Along with Alaric- which, there is a reason he did not tell Caroline about Josie being shot, and it is a good one. Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment or critique down below.


	15. Pit Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more of a small insight into Hope's current mental state than anything else, it does have a panic attack though so you can skip this if needed as it is rather short. (the panic attack starts at "An explosion." and ends at "Out."). I have a longer chapter coming in a few moments, but I thought this snippet went well as a standalone.

Death is nothing at all.  
It does not count.  
I have only slipped away into the next room.  
Nothing has happened.  
  
Everything remains exactly as it was.  
I am I, and you are you,  
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.  
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.  
  
Call me by the old familiar name.  
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.  
Put no difference into your tone.  
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.  
  
Henry Scott-Holland

The trip is calm. Utterly uneventful. Boring. And yet, by the time the car stops for gas, you are half out of the vehicle before it stops. The silence is what really made everything tense. Even with the same dozen or so songs playing on repeat over the radio, there was still a sort of awkwardness that made you feel uncomfortable. The gas station is empty, excusing the teenager behind the register that is leaning against the counter with an expression of utter boredom on his face. You pick up a few things, some drinks and snacks for everyone, and it feels a tad strange to not have to double check the prices of everything. Budgeting for the past few months has left you very aware of the cost of items, but now you can access the account set up for you once again. You frown a bit, absently handing the money over to the cashier, as you consider that such access has made the job at the coffee shop obsolete. Although, even if you do not need the money, it is still enjoyable to work there. If Samuel doesn’t fire you, you’ll likely keep working there. Out of a desire to keep some semblance of a routine, if nothing else. Not to mention that Maya will be pissed at having to work the late shift if you leave, at least until a new hire comes in. On top of that, since you’ve essentially graduated from the Salvatore school (even with the lost transcripts, faking them is not that difficult…and if you happen to change that B to an A, no one will notice), maybe you should look at getting set up at the nearby college. You feel a bit odd, considering what to do, and it is difficult to pinpoint why. Until it hits you. You’re _planning_. A week ago, you had not expected to even make it to today. Before that, it always seemed…considering your future seemed a distant and fantastical thing. Not in the way of ‘when I grow up I’m going to be a fashion designer’ fantastical, but in that you would actually make it there. From birth you have been hunted, and it always seemed a looming danger in your mind, that one day someone would be able to finish you off. Ironic, that having such a thing happen is what led to you being able to plan for a future- if you look at it from a sideways angle. 

Your plans though, revolve around Mystic Falls, and there is no ignoring why. Your friends are there, even with your family in New Orleans (although all of them agreed they would be coming to Mystic Falls soon, to ensure you settle back in okay) it is Mystic Falls you would consider home. Staying in one place does not mean you can not go to the other. Of course, if your friends in Mystic Falls are opposed to your returning for any number of reasons, then you will leave. But you would like to hope they will be okay with letting you stay. Running is still a desire, a nervous hum underneath your skin that is both energizing and depressing. While your past actions were…well, running was the only thing you could do. Such an ingrained instinct, one almost as old as you are, and yet it is one you have grown tired of. Oh, it makes your heart beat faster and your muscles tense, but there is an exhaustion in your mind that makes it clear you can not continue as you once did. 

“That’ll be seven dollars and twenty cents.” The cashier looks at you, looks through you, with blank eyes. You fork over the money, most of your attention on Josie and Lizzie. They’re talking, maybe arguing, just outside the entrance. “Have a nice day.”

You say a goodbye, before focusing on Lizzie and Josie again. You could just listen in, but that would be rude. The walk to the door is a slow one, you want to give the twins their privacy. But you also don’t want to get back in that car again. Part of you is debating just running back to Mystic Falls. You could make it (with a number of blisters). Josie and Lizzie would be alone though, well, relatively. The point is, you wouldn’t be there if anything went wrong. Everything is safe now (and there is a bitter tinge to that thought, you wonder if you’ll ever truly believe that), but there is still an underlying worry that tells you to _protect_. 

One part saying run, the other wanting to get closer. Is it any wonder you can never seem to calm the hell down? 

An explosion. Loud, sudden. Interrupting your thoughts and worries, moving them to the back of your mind as you tense. The bell above the door rings as you push it open, not a concern, your eyes are scanning the lot for whatever caused the noise. Looking for a monster. A couple you fought used explosions (the noise painful, so long in the dark and then the sudden sound of an explosion from beside you, that fight was closer than the others) but they should be gone. A new one? Nothing had been following the car. You had been checking. The area seems clear. No monsters, no screaming. What was it?

A hand on your shoulder. You whirl around, to see a concerned face staring at you. Blonde hair, soft blue eyes, a slight frown. Caroline. Right. She’s talking, and while you can hear her…the words just don’t…don’t register. You shove the hand off, using too much strength in the movement for a normal person. But you don’t want to be touched right now. A second explosion. But this time, focusing on the area, you realize it was just a car backfiring. 

Just a backfire.

No monster.

And yet your heart continues to race. 

You force your eyes shut, against every instinct telling you to be on guard, and you breath. In. Out. In. Out. The smell of gasoline, the smell of exhaust from cars, the smell of something sweeter- Josie’s perfume. You focus on those things. On the gentle breeze dancing over your skin. The bright light from the sun shining through your eyelids. 

In.

Out.

…Fuck. A single word, heavy and laden with all the anxiety and anger worming its way around your chest. It isn’t the first time this has happened (or even the fourth. Sometimes it’s people moving too fast, reaching for you, and then other times it is just a sudden and crushing feeling of dread), and yet you still feel like a sledgehammer has hit you in the chest. Slow and steady, your chest rises and falls rhythmically. Controlled, preventing the fear that you reigned in from swelling up again.

“…Hope?”

“’m fine.” Your voice is stiff, an almost strangled quality to it. You take a breath, straighten up, and roll your eyes at the hovering. Repeating, in a more natural voice. “I’m _fine_.” 

And you look at Caroline, her eyes seeming to ask ‘who are you trying to convince’. But it’s true. You are safe. No monster. There are others around you, to help. You reach out, with both hands, tangling your fingers around Lizzie and Josie’s hands (and the trembling is slight enough they don’t notice it). Grounding. You remember doing this for the Mummy; just like then, you can feel the almost tangible power underneath their skin (more a…an imagined thing than really there, but it feels comforting). Both of them shiver slightly at the sudden touch. 

“Let’s get back on the road.”

Caroline nods at Lizzie’s soft prodding, and the four of you begin walking to the car. There is still a prickling on the back of your neck. You don’t want to get into the car. Too cramped. Too quiet. You slide in with a sigh. 

You feel _sick_.

Your chest _hurts_.

Josie wraps an arm around you and its (too close) nice. The car starts to move once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and still sticking with this after the unplanned hiatus. Please leave a comment or critique below.


	16. Home once again (Or, it could become a home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A welcome back home that isn't so welcoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been two chapters updated, in the event you accidentally skip chapter 15

Dear lovely Death  
That taketh all things under wing—  
Never to kill—  
Only to change  
Into some other thing  
This suffering flesh,  
To make it either more or less,  
But not again the same—  
Dear lovely Death,  
Change is thy other name.

Langston Hughes

The worst part was not the drive through town, the odd feeling of seeing every building under the bright blue sky and realizing that everything seems normal (it’s not, and everything just feels so subtly wrong, so fake). It is not seeing the coffee shop, wondering about Samuel and Maya and Natalie…

No, the worst part is driving up to the school. You…avoided going there as much as possible, only going close enough to see it a handful of times, and yet it feels as if you have not seen it in years. Oh, it looks the same, maybe a few more dents and cracks from explosions, but nothing that can not be ignored, but the entire atmosphere seems different. It only hits you as you are walking through the halls, seeing the returning kids starting to whisper about you (“who’s the new kid?…maybe a vamp?” “Nah, nah, look at the way she walks, that’s all wolf.”). It’s _calm_. The pervasive atmosphere of stress and fear and _what monster will come next_ is gone. No jumping at every loud noise, no paranoia at every flickering light or odd occurrence. Easy jokes tossed between groups, the separation between the supernatural cliques seems smaller. Fighting against monsters and Triad was a good bonding experience? Hopefully that means no more of those ‘group bonding’ sessions…Not that you ever attended them. 

A hand wraps around your arms, both of them, Josie and Lizzie on either side of you. Taking you through the school like a new student. But the grins on their faces (and like this, the resemblance between them is clearer than ever. Eyes bright, happy, and yet the smallest amount of mischief sparking as they look around. Caroline is in front of you, gliding through the halls with an elegance that is more from her confidence than her vampirism- occasionally, she’ll toss a comforting smile at you over her shoulder. And, with Josie and Lizzie beside you, even the knowledge that your other friends will be waiting (and likely furious) can not dissuade the feeling of contentment, it wells up inside you, warm and soft like a blanket. Enveloping you, not washing away your worries but calming them. Making the painful thoughts a little less painful. 

You missed them.

It seems a silly realization, when you have had them next to you for a week, and even before that you still had Josie and your friends before you went after the Necromancer. The difference now though is that, when they look at you, there is a recognition (a lifetime of experiences, good and bad) behind their eyes that was missing before. It’s like a hole has been filled. The cold pit in your stomach, one that lashed out with a feeling of _wrongness_ whenever they would look at you with eyes that were empty of any kind of experience, is quelled. Not gone, Landon, Rafael, Kaleb, and MG still lack their memories, but it is getting better.

Then you see the heavy wooden door in front of you and any sort of calm that had settled flees, leaving panic to set your nerves alight. 

“How much you wanna bet that Dad barely acknowledges us when he sees Hope?” Lizzie’s voice is a sarcastic whisper, but there is a bitter edge to it. “Or that we get lectured for running off again.”

“Come on, Lizzie.” 

Josie voice is admonishing, a chiding glance over your head at her sister, and yet it seems like her heart isn’t entirely in it. Caroline doesn’t say anything, and you are not sure if that is a positive or negative thing. But in the past few days you have spent with her, you’ve learned to be cautious. Of course the few mentions from Aunt Rebekah painted an unkind picture, and your own emotions twisted it more, but somehow you forgot to be wary of Caroline. That this woman took on The Originals (absurd name, and it always makes Freya roll her eyes), and _lived_. That this woman warmed the heart of your father. She isn’t innocent, but her kindness made you forget that. Yet the look on her face, something almost dangerous on it in a ready defense of the twins, is enough to make you remember. 

No knocking. The door is swung open by Caroline with no effort, but she’s careful to keep the from knocking against the wall. Something you actively tried to hit when coming into the room, it seems petty now…causing that little annoyance, how Alaric would look up at you over whatever book he was reading with tired eyes and a frustration that never seemed to go away. But now, he’s already standing. A small, warm, smile on his face as he sees his kids. Something in his shoulders seems to relax as he looks over them, checking for bruises or wounds. You feel guilty, if only slightly, over the worry you had caused. Perhaps if things went to plan, everyone would be fine with nothing out of place (but you would be dead. And unlike the apathy you felt towards such thoughts before, you feel slightly revolted at the thought you could have lost your chance to move forward). 

Then his eyes fall on you. 

When Alaric looks at you, there has always been a barrier. He looks at you and sees your father first, the memories and pain, before ever seeing _you_. It always hurt, but there was a cautious warmth that you had come to like. He was not a father to you. You already have a family, had a father, but Alaric is someone you can respect.

Except now, without the memories of you, Alaric only sees the daughter of the Great Evil. The girl that influenced his daughters to steal a car, drive across the country, and put themselves in danger. His face is carefully blank, no hint of anger or distrust, but that in itself is a tell. 

“Hello.” His voice is even, and for a moment you think he’s speaking to you, but then his eyes flicker over to Caroline. “Your trip was okay?”

“Yes, it was fine. A bit long though.” 

The small talk is annoying, pleasantries that everyone wants to do away with and move into the true reason of this meeting. Lizzie snorts, cutting through the tense atmosphere without a care. 

“Nice to see you too, Dad.” He winces, and you feel sympathy. Lizzie mutters under her breath, “called it, didn’t I?”

Josie sighs, but there’s amusement lacing it. You ignore the two of them, stepping forward. 

“Hello, Dr. Saltzman.” You smirk, a sharp and crooked thing (and if Alaric tenses, seeing the similarity in your smirk and your father’s…well, it was merely a coincidence). “I would say it’s good to see you again but I don’t think the feeling is quite mutual. Considering you don’t have memories of me and all.” You wave off whatever Alaric goes to say, continuing to speak. “Before we get into this, would you like those memories back?”

He’s quick to respond, voice more pointed than before and a bit of distrust lining the crease between his furrowed brows. 

“Is it dark, the magic?” 

Once a Hunter, always a Hunter. The thought comes to you, something your Aunt said about Alaric. Your family isn’t fond of Alaric- an understatement- and you can see why. Without your history, he’s treating you like a threat. And it doesn’t escape Caroline’s notice. She scowls, moving slightly in front of you, 

“No, Alaric. It isn’t. We have already had our memories returned, you think I’d let dark magic be used on our girls?” 

It’s a deceptively calm question, one hiding a snake beneath it that is ready to strike if Alaric answers wrong. In any other situation, seeing how Alaric freezes would be humorous. 

“Of course not!” He sighs, deflating and rubbing his temple absently. A practiced motion. “Just…I’m a little on edge. But it is good to have you back.”He’s silent, long enough that you begin to think he won’t answer. Or perhaps he will say no to the memories (and a part of you flinches at that thought, that he could so easily toss away his memories of you, but it is not your choice). But then he lowers his hand and clenches it in a fist. “Do it. Before I can change my mind.”

Love the vote of confidence. Well, he didn’t trust your magic when he knew you, why would it be any different when he doesn’t? But you gather the magic, and despite the feelings of false comfort that come with it, there is a distinct feeling of it being _wrong_. 

It is not _your_ magic. But it answers your call all the same, even if there is a grudging feeling to it- if magic could have feelings. 

Alaric does not relax as he is hit by the magic, at least not completely. Unlike with your family, you have the wherewithal to actually pay attention to its affects. A sudden laxness washes over Alaric, like all his worries have been washed away, but he quickly becomes ridged once again- as if realizing the feelings are false. It is disconcerting, to feel your body betraying you when you know what you should actually be feeling. He almost seems to be in pain. Not physical, but…the same kind of pain you feel when faced with darkness or silence or a threat.

Then it ends. A shuddering breath, Alaric takes a moment to compose himself. His eyes open, and again, you are hit by the stark and sudden difference in how he looks at you. But one thing remains. His wariness. Seeing it thrown into stark relief, when you first entered the room, you can still find it even as his eyes fill with recognition. And it hurts. Of course you knew he was cautious of you (always so cautious, always telling you to bury your darker impulses, implicitly telling you not to become like your father.). 

“So…I can now say it’s good to see you, Hope.”

He manages an awkward smile, one you don’t return. You don’t want any sort of…touchy-feely reunion. Right now, after spending half a day in a car, all you want to do is get this conversation over with. Then go back to the hotel, and sleep. Alone. Because, while you have loved being around your family and enjoyed the time with the twins- it has all become a little too much. An itch building under your skin that you can’t quite ignore anymore. You’ll have to change soon, shift and run, and the anticipation is enough to make you antsy.

“You girls can go ahead and get settled, I need to talk to your father real quick. Hope, do you mind staying at the school for a bit. I’d like to talk to you after this.”

“No.”Caroline turns to look at you, her focus shifting from Alaric. Her words were not really a suggestion, more of an order, but it is not one you are under any obligation to follow. “I’m the one that escaped Malivore, who ended him, and everything after. You can’t tell a story without the person who lived it. Or, well, you shouldn’t.” 

“And I’m not leaving Hope.” 

Josie’s voice is firm, steel underneath the softness, and you glance at her with a slight smile- Lizzie is quick to voice an agreement. Caroline stares for a moment, a careful and evaluating look that seems to pierce you. But you don’t shrink away from it, meeting the stare head on with a defiant glare of your own. A look you’ve perfected. Not many people can stare down your father, your mother, or look death in the face and then willingly jump into it- and while ‘teenage belligerence’ as you once heard it called likely plays a part, there is also the weight of your experiences behind it. 

“Okay.” It’s not Caroline that speaks, but Alaric. You’re surprised enough by his agreement that it takes a moment to truly settle in, that you don’t have to argue or fight him to be allowed to stay is an almost novel experience. “Let’s start with how you escaped Malivore.”

An easy and neat beginning, for them at least. Such a simple request to voice, but recounting the events is far less so. Yet you wanted to stay. 

“Malivore…he killed himself.” A whispered ‘huh?’ comes from Lizzie behind you, but Alaric just furrows his brow. The truth in your statement is almost funny. If Malivore hadn’t killed you, if he had just left you to go insane, he would still be alive- or a version of it, at least. Now he’s just an echo. “I’m a tribrid, but I when I went into the pit I wasn’t a full one. He didn’t sense much else beyond the fact that I was…wrong, if he did then he wouldn’t have killed me.” Alaric pales, a tightness in his posture. Everyone else in the room shifts. Hearing it stated so bluntly is still uncomfortable, even- or perhaps especially- for you. “When I died, when my heart stopped and the vampire blood kicked in, he was just as dead. I didn’t escape Malivore-“ you didn’t even survive “-I got lucky. For the past couple months I’ve just been hanging around here, working at a coffee shop and staying at the motel down by that broken gas station. The only exciting thing to happen was Mnemosyne showing up and then hunting down the Necromancer.”

“You were here? The entire time?”

You shrug, an awkward and heavy movement in the atmosphere of the room, as if trying to shake off the stifling pressure of Alaric’s stare. Josie huffs slightly behind you, and you can almost imagine the commiseration in her eyes as she looks at her dad- after all, you were quite literally in front of her face while she was searching for you. There is another issue though, more pressing than your whereabouts. 

“There’s something else.” Of course there is, says Alaric’s eyes, there always is. “I’m not the only one that got lucky in escaping Malivore.”

“You mean…how many?”

Alaric’s voice is reigned, tired, and drawn. The question does not seem like one he wants to ask, but one he must. 

“Dozens…probably more. And most of them will be…less than healthy. But it has been months, so if no one has heard or seen them yet then they may just be recovering somewhere calm.”A couple months in Malivore left its mark on you, but years in there…it’s the sort of madness that drove Mnemosyne and others to use try and use their magic on themselves (and then the utter _emptiness_ when they realized all over again that their magic no longer worked, that they were powerless even in trying to control their end). “We’ll have to find them.”

“I’ll let Jeremy know, he can get the word out to other hunters. We’ll see if anyone has encountered one of the monsters.”

Alaric says it almost absently, already beginning to plan in the event of an attack, and your blood runs cold. They’ll be killed. It shouldn’t bother you this much, but you can’t help but imagine how easily you could have been in their place. How easy it would have been for you to lose yourself to the feral and angry hum that seemed to always be just beneath your skin. Just a desire to survive. If you had come out from Malivore, and instead of holding onto the memory of everyone you love, tossed them away just to focus on living…you would not be here. The darkness would have claimed your mind (and in its own way, it still has. But you can fight it), and some hunter would have found you and put you down. These beings were being controlled, now they’re free. You want to help them. 

“We’re not telling the hunters.” Alaric looks at you, a frown already beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth. Well, there went his relief at seeing you. “They’ll be killed.”

“The hunters have experience with this, we’ll just let them-“

“Not the hunters, the ones from Malivore.” He looks at you, as if asking ‘so?’ and it is so easy to see him as a hunter. A sort of detachment from those he was hunting down, seeing them as monsters instead of sentient beings. It’s a dangerous thing. And you can’t help but wonder if he still looks at the students like that. “They don’t deserve to just be killed, they need help. Sure, some of them may be beyond aide, or may not want it. But it does not mean we can’t try.”

“Hope…they are monsters.”

“They are hurt and scared.”

“They’ll _hurt_ and _scare_ people.”

“I won’t let you.”

“Why are you so upset!”

Alaric tosses his hands in the air, an exasperated gesture that only serves to infuriate you more. Caroline moves forward but you shoot her a glance, shaking your head. This is between you and Alaric. You take a breath, and voice a thought- a fear- that has been with you for years. 

“Because all I can see, when I think of a hunter taking them out, is you standing over me with a crossbow!” The entire room seems to suck in a breath. Alaric pales, hands hanging limp at his sides, and he stares at you- mouth opening and closing as if his words have fled alongside his anger. “Because it could have been me that was taken down by some hunter if things went a little worse in Malivore. They don’t deserve that!”

But you don’t think that, not really. No, if a hunter had come for you in the early days…you would have torn them to shreds. When everything was still sharp and new and the smell of blood drove you into a frenzy- those days you spent wandering the woods in Kansas. If you had been in a town, if you had lost control…you doubt very many things could have taken you down- and not without a lot of casualties. Your father mowed people down, hundreds upon hundreds of people, and you are well on your way to being stronger than him. Your worst fear, one of the nightmares that comes on the bad days, is of you in a feral state and Alaric or Josie or Landon or someone stumbling across you. Looking at you in fear or hatred or anger- everything except recognition-, and you tear them apart without a second thought. 

Logically, you know that this is a worst case scenario. It didn’t happen, so you shouldn’t be so caught up in the ‘what if’, but your brain likes to dwell on how easy it would be for you to fall to darkness (and, sometimes, that voice sounds a little too much like Alaric, telling you that you’ll never be anything more than the legacy your father left). It’s irrational, but at least you recognize it

“I’m sorry.” Alaric isn’t looking at you, and even though the words seem sincere, you can’t quite bring yourself to believe them. But you want to. “I’ll…Jeremy can be trusted, we can work something out. ” 

“…thank you.” You feel your face begin to flush with more embarrassment than anger as you feel Lizzie and Josie’s eyes on your back. There’s a strong urge to just blow it off and stalk out. But you won’t do that. “I shouldn’t have said the whole…sorry, Dr. Saltzman. You’re just trying to help.” 

After a few moments of painfully awkward silence, Caroline speaks up,

“I think we’ve gone a tad off track.” Ah…yeah. Whoops. “Malivore, can you tell us anything about it, Hope?”

“Beyond what you guys know, nothing.” _Liar_. “But he’s gone, he won’t be hurting anyone.”

Caroline pauses for a moment, as if something catches her attention, and her gaze on you feels heavy. But it passes and she turns back to Alaric. 

“Okay, I think it’s time for you girls to head out. Hope, do you mind staying on campus for the night?” 

You do mind, very much so, but instead of saying that you just give a halfhearted nods of acknowledgement. Josie gives your arm a slight tug, you know its her because she wraps her hand around your arm whereas Lizzie tends to place her hand on your shoulder (its the subtle motions, things you wouldn’t have payed attention to before that seem all the more important to savor now). 

“You can stay with us, I’m pretty sure they gave your room away.”

Even if you were in the habit of denying Josie things, the hopeful way she looks at you chases away any disagreement.

“Yeah…sure, okay.” 

Lizzie snorts a bit at your eloquence, but it is easily ignored in the face of Josie’s smile. A slight cough brings you back to the room, Alaric is looking at you with something close to suspicion while Caroline is hiding a smile. Great. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Mom! Love you guys.”

Lizzie practically dashes from the room, half dragging you and Josie behind her. The door shuts with a click, and you turn to the girl with an incredulous expression.

“Any reason you decided to haul us out of there faster than the time you set your potion on fire in Dorian’s class?”

“At least I brought you with me this time.” You scowl at her, remembering the event. A blonde blur sprinting from the room, and then _boom_. Half the class had pink hair for a week and the other half smelled like licorice (you smelled like licorice, you hate licorice). “But! Notice how they didn’t punish us, which means it either slipped their mind or they didn’t want to do it with you there. Probably the first one. Which means as long as we keep them from remembering, we don’t get in trouble.”

“…you’re only delaying the inevitable.”

“Let me have this, Hope!”

* * *

Delaying the inevitable, indeed. You chuckle as the girls wander off into the building. A punishment won’t work, the girls would do it all again. And you can not honestly bring yourself to reprimand them, not with the look on Rebekah’s face when she recounted what exactly happened- how they found Hope. The two of you are far from ever being considered friends, but the sort of pain on her face is one you felt when Josie woke up screaming when the twins came to visit you after their birthday, desperate to be heard ( (don’t leave me, she had sobbed out and the anguish in her voice had _torn_ at your chest). No…you will not be punishing them, but a conversation about responsibility and getting an adult would not be remiss. 

However, there is a different person who needs to hear about what proper responsibility is right now. 

Turning, the harsh words for Alaric die on your tongue. He is leaning over his desk, shoulders hunched with a pain you can not see, and his breath is ragged despite his efforts to control it. 

“She was right _here_. The entire time. And I didn’t know.”

Who ‘her’ is needs no clarification. Behind the anger in Alaric’s voice is pain. You know this . man, lived with him for quite a while, and he is just human. But he also failed at his duties and it resulted in people suffering (you never wanted your daughters to experience the life you did, the pain and misery, this place was meant to be a haven). Sympathy for Alaric is there, but that does not remove your own anger. 

“Hope does seem quite good at hiding things.” And she is, after the panic attack at the gas station she only needed a few moments to paste on smirk and bored eyes, a mask you have no doubt she wears more than she should. The shake in her hands and the stiffness of her breathing could not be hidden entirely though. A good liar, but not as good as her father. “But she shouldn’t have been in this situation at all.”

“What was I supposed to do, Caroline?” Alaric’s voice is resigned. “Landon had been taken and the school was under siege, Hope was the one who went after him.”

“You should have called for help. I would have come.” Searching for a way to stop the Merge is important, but only if your children actually survive past their teens. “Alaric, you told me that everything was under control- that it was no real issue. But here I find out that Hope killed a dragon, a gargoyle nearly killed Lizzie, a slug screwed with everyone’s heads, Josie was _shot,_ and a student was _killed_ by another student!”

“He’s okay!”

“Really, Alaric? You’ve died, what, eight times. Can you honestly say you were okay after any of them. I know that after being turned I was pretty damn _far_ from being okay.” You pinch your nose, the pressure of a headache beginning to grow, and sigh. “The point is: you needed help.”

“And how am I supposed to know you would have come?”

“What.” 

A flat response, not even a true question. Alaric’s question an accusation, his eyes burning with the rest of the sentence ‘how am I supposed to know you would have come, when you’re never around anymore’. How _dare_ he. He saw what the Merge did to his wife, what happened to Kol, and he wants to judge you for searching for some way to fix it? Yes, you’ve missed birthdays and dances and so many other things (and every single time it hurts), but ensuring your children continue _having_ birthdays is important. He continues on blithely,

“I didn’t call you because I wasn’t sure you would come, Caroline. And it would have just worried you when your focus is needed on the research.”

You move. Too fast, Alaric’s hand twitches for the stake you know he keeps in his desk and it is that which truly convinces you of your path. Leaning over the desk, your voice is a low growl, completely human but from the way Alaric seems to stiffen that does not matter. 

“My research comes second to our children. Don’t _ever_ think otherwise.” A deep breath, the point of this conversation is devolving, and an argument won’t help anyone (Stephen used to joke about you being a hothead, look at your restraint now). “I heard about the vote, to remove or keep you as headmaster after the Triad invasion.”

Alaric pauses, the sudden shift in conversation and tone catching him off guard. 

“Yes?”

“I think you should step down.” Over the past few days during your trip from New Orleans to Mystic Falls, where you got the kids to tell you the story in bursts on the road, a plan has been building in your mind. “This job is a lot, and it doesn’t seem to be fitting you. There are a couple people I am going to call, a few teachers or even some to act as guards, to come in for interviews. But I want your help to find someone qualified for the headmaster position.”

“Seriously?” Alaric sounds incredulous, and angry, but he seems to think it over. In making the school, the two of them scrambled to find enough staff to fill courses. They had some help from other schools, but most of them only served witches. A school for all three supernatural creatures was unprecedented, and it showed in the difficulty they had in making one. But the school is stable now, less likely to collapse if they look away for a minute, so it is time to begin strengthening it. Which includes acknowledging neither her nor Alaric truly have the experience or education to run a school. “Does this mean you plan on staying?”

“Yes, I’ll be here for the foreseeable future.”

“…okay.” His voice is soft, and he runs a hand through his hair, and there is a touch of defeat in it. “Okay. We can get started on this tomorrow.”

The two of you fall into silence. Years of history weighing heavily on your shoulders and even though both of you stand next to each other, it feels as if you are standing across a wide gulf. One you are not quite sure how to bridge. 

“I forgot.” Alaric’s voice is low and scratchy, his fingers tapping against his leg. The movement is one he does when wanting a drink (he tried toothpicks soaked in whiskey once, but he always ended up twirling them between his fingers instead). “That Josie was shot. Hope was the one who told me, and Josie was healed by the time Hope jumped so it was wiped away without a trace. Malivore wiped away everything, the only thing I had from that were a few thoughts of Josie being wounded but there wasn’t even a scar.” 

It is an apology, even if those words do not feature in it, and Alaric is staring at you with an expression near pleading. Malivore. Even dead it seems to be haunting everyone, and you did not even truly interact with it. Something itches in your head, a memory or thought that is fighting to come forward. Just out of reach an- ‘Him’. Hope had called Malivore ‘him’. Alone it is not odd, but there was such surety in her voice when she said it would not be hurting anyone else was…more than mere conviction. A sinking feeling begins to hit your stomach. Even as a powerful witch, Hope should not have been able to recreate a spell just by hearing it- in a language she does not even speak- and have it work perfectly. A dozen inconsistencies begin to pop up, small things that you ignored as Hope misremembering, and with every one it feels like being punched in the stomach. 

But. 

This is Hope, she stayed with her family for a week. And if the Mikaelsons’ who _raised_ the girl did not find anything amiss…Perhaps you are jumping to conclusions. Still, something feels _wrong_. You will be keeping an eye on Hope.

* * *

“Lizzie’s grabbing food, she didn’t think you would want to eat in the hall tonight.” You ignore the last message on your phone (‘focus on your gf, I’ll take my time’), and look up at Hope. She’s standing by the bed, still looking to the door that Lizzie left through (hurried in a way you would almost call _awkward_ ), but she gives a slight hum of acknowledgement. Hums, grunts, nods…You’ve gotten used to reading them. Hope is quieter now, even more than she was before leaving, but there are also times when she is loud- a forced feeling that comes into her laughs and smiles. But she doesn’t like being called on it, the one- and only- time you tried was before you got your memories back. You never got an answer, she distracted you and pulled your attention elsewhere. “Would you like to watch a movie?”

Hope just shrugs absently, not truly paying attention. She’s tense, an energy coursing through her that she seems to be fighting, and every so often her gaze drifts to the window. Rafael does the same thing too, when things get too loud. Like he wants to go run through the woods (He’s different now, more centered, but there is an underlying wariness that was not present before the time he spent as a wolf). So that’s the issue. You don’t know the last time Hope shifted, but from her actions it has been too long. 

“Want to go visit the Clubhouse?” She looks at you, eyes focusing on you, and it is a very intense gaze. There’s a very distinct feeling of being examined, of Hope pulling apart every movement- every breath- under her watchful gaze, and yet it is not uncomfortable. Just…heavy. “You can go running, I need to pick up a book from there anyways.” 

A lie, and Hope knows it, but from the small smile that plays across her lips it is an amusing one. 

“Sure, let’s go.” She moves, then pauses with a frown. “What about Lizzie?”

“Lizzie is probably going to get stopped by every student asking about you, we’ll probably still be back before her.”

Hope rolls her eyes, a fond movement (and it is still so strange to see it as _fond_ , when the two of them used to be at each other’s throats. But then, that was your fault anyways) and heads towards your door. Getting up from your bed you almost grab the pen off the side table, the one you used to write notes to Hope…You pocket it, then follow after Hope.

The halls are empty, quiet. Yet there is always that thrum, beneath your feet the feeling of magic. Strong magic calls to you, Lizzie too, but siphoning is…it is a rush. Walking through the school day after day removes some of the glamour though. It feels almost like when you touch Hope. But with her…her magic seems to lick at your skin, warm and heavy, as if she is saturated with it, and your abilities are never far below the surface- ready to pull at any moment. The school may have magic within it, but it is not _alive_ in the same way. The oddity with Hope though, is that you feel her magic at all, even without siphoning. You never encountered that with a person before. And it is only something that came when she was back from Malivore, after turning. Hope never spoke about what she thought would happen when she became a full tribrid, talking about dying is not really pleasant conversation, but the students loved to speculate. Most of them agreed that a full tribrid Hope would be terrifying. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Hope is looking over at you, slightly raised eyebrow and a small smirk. 

“Oh, is that all my thoughts are worth?” 

“Well, I don’t even exist right now so getting my bank account open is a little difficult. Honestly, I don’t even have a penny right now.” You laugh, and Hope’s smirk turns into a smile (she looks proud at making you laugh- it wasn’t even that good a joke, but you missed this. Being home, talking with her.). “Seriously though, you want to share?”

“Hm. Maybe later?”

“Sure thing.”

It’s a slightly awkward silence, but not uncomfortable. You like walking with Hope. She’s beside you, close enough your shoulders brush. Her head swivels around to take everything in, and occasionally she’ll catch your eye and smile. There are still things you want to ask her, but you are beginning to realize that feeling will not fade for a long time. You can’t wait for it to, for the two of you to know each other like the back of your hand (and it may be an ambitious goal, considering you haven’t even had a date yet, but…you’ve been waiting for a while), and for the day when you don’t really need words to communicate thoughts. 

You can not wait for the day that the relationship becomes like Marcel’s with Rebekah- not effortless, but…warm and calm and comfortable. 

But that’s not quite yet (and the time it’ll take to get there will be an adventure all on its own, and the thought lingers as you wave off Hope to go running while you sit in the clubhouse, a grin on your face). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will see Hope reuniting with her friends...it is going to be interesting. I hope this provided some explanation for Alaric's thoughts and actions- as a former hunter, alcoholic, and likely suffering from (semi-treated, a counselor is not a psychologist) PTSD just from being killed so many times. I honestly can not imagine the trauma or issues that could arise from all his experiences, but it sure is fun trying! 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment or critique below.
> 
> For those of you interested in IRL stuff: They are recovering, but Wisdom got hit by a car. So I have been at their beck and call to prevent them from moving around on a broken leg. (They told me to say: 4/10 recommendation on getting hit, it is fun to fly through the air but hitting the ground sucked) On top of that, I am back at school- in person- so updates are going to be slow because of that too. It has been a rather hectic couple of months, I hope everyone else has been well!


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